


Tale of the Horsemen

by OrangeZest100



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Character Death, Child Abuse, Death, Delusions, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dystopia, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, F/M, Four Horsemen, Gore, Hostage Situation, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Murder, Psychological Torture, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Robbery, Serial Killers, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeZest100/pseuds/OrangeZest100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serial Killer AU.  Sam and Dean travel the country as serial killers.  Alternate Canon.  Contains no supernatural elements except for the terms used as nicknames.  Will/must contain some character death, though most deaths are the ones that have occurred in canon.  Wincest in the beginning that is situational, but mostly Destiel and Samifer.  I add tags for anything that happens past what is here, that I haven't written yet, and I update the tags as needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm largely addicted to serial killer aus and I just had to finally write one for myself. This is a big project but I've just gone back to school so I need your support to keep me going! I do not have a vast knowledge of criminology; the knowledge I do have comes from watching Criminal Minds and having a dark mind. I hope, however, that this will be a fairly enjoyable experience for you.

College was an entirely new experience for Sam Winchester.  He has the ordinary strange of a new college freshman: freedom, homesickness, and a complete lack of a social circle.  His strange has a whole different flavor.  Freedom like a slave suddenly released, and with this new found power Sam flounders for weeks; homesickness in missing black metal, leather seats, and the sound of Metallica over a car engine.  Everyone has no friends as a freshman, but few others come from a circle of a father, a brother, and a handful of others.  Needless to say the first few weeks of Stanford are rough.  Sam moves in a week early.   Other than sheets, a blanket, and a pillow he gets with his last purchase on fake credit cards, Sam has only his clothes, a duffel bag, and an eight gigabyte flash drive to his name.  His RHD is worried about him as soon as he meets him, his lack of possessions and one barely visible scar along his collarbone enough to convince the man of Sam’s troubled past.  Sam does his best to avoid him, puts his room key and his campus ID in his pockets and picks up his textbooks at the bookstore after setting down his duffel in his room.  Then he’s clueless.  Sam is used to strict schedules enforced by pain and suddenly he is left without the structure.  So he works out instead, mostly push-ups and crunches for now.  A thin layer of sweat covers his bare torso when he gets up to answer the knock at the door.  The RHD blinks at him when the door opens, only to be expected since Sam is tall, shirtless, and wearing a pair of jeans that love to fall down even with a belt.  “Um, Mr. Winchester I found you some soap, a towel, a book bag, and a couple of pens but I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can really do for you.”  Then it’s Sam’s turn to blink.

“I…thanks,” he says, taking the offered plastic bag.  “I wasn’t really expecting that.”  Sam laughs nervously, opens the door to let the man in.  He can see the man staring at his old scars but he ignores it in favor of unpacking the bag.   _The masses are only for fun Samuel; their thoughts on your Godhood should make no impression._  Sam ignores the words echoing in his head, threatening to crawl their way through his nerves.

“You have a very few possession’s Mr. Winchester.”

“Sam, please call me Sam.”

“Sam then, I just….did your father…”  Sam’s body tenses and spins him around faster than the adult can process.

“We don’t talk about my father.”  Sam’s voice was reminiscent of battled lightning.  The RHD isn’t an idiot; he can spot a bad topic when he sees one, and so he moves on.

“The libraries open already if you get bored in here,” he says before bidding a hasty retreat from the still glaring nineteen year old.  Sam spends every other day of that week at the library, the other days locked in his dorm room either working out or reading his textbooks.  He’s only 150 pages into his third textbook when there’s a knock on the door.  Shoving his now capped highlighter in between the pages, he opens the door.

“Thanks man,” calls a deep voice from behind a stack of linens, rushing through the doorway to claim the other bed in Sam’s room with three others following after.  “Yeah, just set stuff on the bed mom.”  Sam’s knuckles whitening on the spine of his book was his only change in posture.  The young African-American man turned and held out a hand for Sam to shake as the other three hustled out the door again.  “I’m Clark Smith, your roommate!”  Sam stared at the hand for several moments and just as Clark went to withdraw it, Sam snapped a hand out and gave one good shake.

“I’m Sam.”  Clark’s smile gets hug.

“Common then Sam, let’s get me moved in.”  Sam carries up one box before his help is no longer needed.  Sam goes back to reading his textbook again as Clark says goodbye to his family.  For the most part Clark ignored him, but after a majority of his stuff was unpacked he kept staring at Sam’s sparse side of the room.  “So is your family bringing the rest of your stuff up later?”  Sam barely looks up from highlighting a particularly valid sentence.

“Nope.”  Sam can feel Clark’s stare but he’s thumbing through the dictionary at his side in an effort to parse a certain word.

“That’s all you own?”  Sam simply raises an eyebrow.  “No we are fixing this.”  Sam just shrugs and ignores him as the boy splutters.  Another knock on the door and their other two roommates are claiming the other room.  The shorter mouse-haired girl’s name is Ida, a foreign exchange student from Denmark.  The other girl is named Vivica is curvy, blonde, and tough as nails.  Sam can’t help noticing that she’s Dean’s type and his fingers clench involuntarily on his book before curling around the pages.  Clark starts chattering immediately but Sam ignores all of them until Vivica snatches his book away.

“Hey,” he yells around his highlighter cap indignantly, fire curling up around his spine.  Sam bet her pale skin would bruise pretty, dark purples with mottled yellows and greens while it heals.  He wonders how a splash of blood would look across her cheek.

“Common Sam, brighten up,” chatters Clark.  “We’re taking you shopping!”  Vivica sticks a bookmark on his page before dropping the book on the bedspread as the other two pulled him to standing.  In the end he ends up owning three pairs of jeans, two shirts, notebooks, folders, and writing materials.  Clark almost purred in delight when they clambered out of his car and headed towards their residence hall.  Sam just sighs, packs the purchases Clark insisted upon buying away, and returned to his textbook, highlighter in hand.

~

Sam soon discovers that Clark chatters constantly and he’s almost relieved that they both have the required self-defense course together, if only for the potential opportunity to knock the boy down.  They arrive a few minutes early, gathering around the wrestling mat with the other students.  The class is definitely a variety, jocks and nerds facing a wrestling mat with equal parts suspicion and confidence.  “Hello,” bellows their instructor, some willowy man and Sam is determined to never remember his name.  “Today I just want to get a glance at how well you can do so I’m just going to call you up individually from my list.”  Sam settles himself for a wait.  Most of the class is fairly incompetent and Sam is pleased to see Clark go down with one hit.  His name is the last to be called.  Sam knows he’s imposing being both tall and muscular but the guy only smiles, like it’s some kind of treat.  The man throws a simple punch (others have already been disposed of using this method).  Sam sidesteps, grabs the man’s outstretched arm and twists it behind the man’s back.  Sam has the man pinned in seconds and he relishes the brief look of surprise on the man’s face.  “Good job Mr. Winchester,” says the instructor after Sam lets him up.  Sam is careful to keep his face impassive to hide his disgust at the man below him.  He notices that there’s still 20 minutes left of class and he can anticipate what comes next.  “How about I don’t hold back and we see how well you can do?”

Sam stands like he normally would, loose and ready for the man’s attack.  It’s obvious straight away that he’s class taught, probably with only two regular stances.  He makes a swipe at Sam’s face heading left with his right hand while at the same time he swings his left leg right in order to trip him.  Sam sees it coming a long ways away and simply contorts himself to avoid the blows.  Then it’s blocking blows with forearms and redirecting hits with palms; it’s almost too easy when Sam uses the older man’s own momentum to capture him in a sleeper hold.  The Winchester lets him go quickly though; unconscious people are generally frowned upon.  The man does his best to hide his glare that he sends Sam’s way.  “We done?”  Sam doesn’t really care, but it’d be nice to know.  The man coughs a couple of times.

“Class is dismissed.”  Several of the students stare at him as they leave, but Sam pays them no mind.  “Mr. Winchester,” calls the man and Sam turns around with an actual glare this time.  “Obviously, this class would be too easy for you and the school would allow you to test out for full credit.”  Sam just nodes, expression blank again but he takes the offered form and hurries to catch up with Clark.  His roommate doesn’t explode until they get to their room.

“What the actual fuck?”  Clark threw his bag on his desk before getting into Sam’s personal space.  “We know nothing about you, you have no possessions, and you can kick people’s asses.  Something has to give in this friendship man.”  Sam blinks, unaware of their friendship status but then his mask slips and he’s vulnerable.  He can feel it in the set of his face and he feels _dirty_ but he owes this boy something of an explanation.

“My mom’s dead, died when I was just a baby.  My dad’s an ex-marine; he didn’t take it well.”  His mask slips back on then and Clark looks like Sam just kicked his puppy.

“Hey man, I’m sorry—“

“Don’t mention it.”

~

It’s when Sam starts dating Jess that he realizes exactly how isolated his life has been.  He can tell the differences between beers blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back, and using nothing but his sense of smell.  Sam hasn’t been to a party (of any kind), hasn’t had more than two ice cream cones in his entire life, and understands very little of modern media.  Jess doesn’t know why, doesn’t really care more importantly, and step by step she slowly fills these holes in Sam’s knowledge.  John and dean don’t call; John and Dean don’t write.  If Jess notices that on bad days Sam spends his time looking for arrests and deaths online, she doesn’t mention it.

Sam starts gaining secondary respect for people through her.  The sounds of his Dad’s lectures grow quieter in his head.  On really good days he can’t recite every exact incident that gave him his scars.  All good things come to an end though, or maybe these were the bad days in his life, these four years.  Sam never could decide later.


	2. Reunited and Betrayed by Happenstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 1 Episode 1: Pilot

Twenty two years ago, Dean Winchester says “goodnight Sammy” and goes to bed with hugs and kisses from his parents.  Twenty two years ago, Dean Winchester is woken up by screaming and heat.  Twenty two years ago, Dean Winchester carries his little brother Sam out of the house as his Dad runs with them and his home burns.  Twenty two years ago, Dean Winchester’s mom dies and something gets broken in his dad.  Twenty two years ago is where Dean and Sam’s lives really begin.

Dean can’t quite remember how many hours it took him to get to Stanford.  It doesn’t matter really, not with this problem, and a quick call gets him the address.  He sneaks in, it doesn’t take him long with his lock pick, decides to search the fridge for a beer.  He notices almost immediately when Sam approaches.  The fight is welcome, a nice distraction from the thoughts in his head, the need in his blood, and Sam doesn’t hold back, though Dean ignores the fact that Sam would if his brother could see him in the light.  “Dean?”  He smiles, his first truly genuine one in years.

“Hey ya Sammy!  Getting rusty,” and he quirks an eyebrow but the sasquatch knees him, flips them over so that Dean’s the one pinned.  “Or not,” he says, laughing as Sam helps him up.

“What are you doing here,” asks Sam.  Dean opens his mouth to answer, breathes in dust and air and some sort of comforting feeling, when someone clicks the light on from the across the room.  For a moment, the Winchesters stand blinking in the light before they turn their heads as one.

“Sam?”  There’s some girl in a Smurfs t-shirt and short shorts.  Her hair is blonde, wavy, and it’s obvious that he’s half asleep.

“This is my girlfriend Jess,” Sam’s eyes are dangerous but Sammy never did like it when Dean touched his things.  “This is Dean.”

“Like, your brother Dean?”  Dean squinted at her, let his yes flick to Sam.  The idea of Sammy mentioning him was a surprise, but then Dean never expected his to have a girlfriend.

“Ah, The Smurfs,” Dean says, “very nice.”

“I’ll just go put something on…”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of it.”  Dean smiles, but it’s not a Sammy smile, it’s fake and condescending but people still believed it.

“What are you here for Dean?”  Sam’s eyes still shine dangerously but the elder Winchester brother can take a hint when he wants to.

“Why don’t you excuse us, I have to talk to my brother about some family stuff,” he shoots at Jess, already preparing to ignore her.

“No,” says Sam, “whatever you have to say to me, you can say to her.”  Dean stared because this is not the brother he knows and this one is so similar it can fool even him, but he shrugs.  He didn’t really have time for this.

“Alright well, dad hasn’t been home in a few days.”  Sam scoffs, arm flexing around the girl.

“Yeah, well, Dad does that.  He’ll come crawling back eventually.”  Dean’s face becomes shadowed.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”  Sam’s arm clenches and Dean wonders if it hurts Jess as Sam pales.  Dean waits by the car as Sam gets ready.  It’s an itch, under his skin, and he hasn’t hunted in days, probably over a week, and for a moment he considers Jessica.  She’s not usually his type but Dean would be willing to bet that her blood would match nicely against her skin; she would beg too, cry until she gave up, muscles going slack and dean would finish her off then.  They’re no fun when they give up.  She deserves it anyway, warping his brother away from him, and Dean would give a pretty penny just to slit her throat.  Sam’s getting in the car though, so Dean turns over the engine and drives.

“So what are we hunting,” asks Sam, eyes focused on the road.

“Aw common Sammy, no hello?”

“I just want to get this job done and be back by Monday.  We find Dad and you go drop me off.”  Sam pauses.  “Stop calling me Sammy, will you, that’s the name of a cubby five year old.”

“Whatever you say Sammy.”  They ride in silence except for Sam’s complaining about Dean’s music.  (No one messes with his tunes.)  They stop at a bridge that’s roped off with police tape.  Dean shifts through his IDs.

“Dude, really?”  Dan just hands one to him, feels a flicker of pride in the way that Sam just grunts but takes the offered paper.  Dean can’t wait to see that smile again, his favorite one, Sam’s knuckles bruised from contact and speckles of someone else’s blood on his face.  Dean smiles though, declares them Federal Marshalls, successfully bluffs their way into the crime scene.  The feds are idiots and Dean could see it a mile away: the faint white speckles in the cracks of the dashboard, oil marking the dash from where noses took lines, the faint trace of coughed up blood on the carpet.

“Well officer, we’re going to go investigate a bit more, but I’d try dredging the river.”

“It’s a disappearance case…”

“Well then it wouldn’t hurt to try the river, would it?”  Dean turns on his heel, strides towards his car, Sam following as soon as his brain catches up with his ears.  Sam’s slammed his door before he speaks.

“What the hell was that Dean?”

“Some friendly advice.”

“That was not friendly, that was condescending!”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to— doesn’t matter; the guys dead and we know what Dad was hunting now.”  Dean can see it in his brother, had trained himself to see it, so of course he notices the interested spark that alights in Sam’s eyes.  Sam clenches his fists above his thighs and his eyes dance over their surroundings as Dean drives to a motel.

“What was he hunting then?”

“A couple of ghosts probably, though it could be a couple of pagan gods, it was too hard to tell.”  Sam just nods, stays locked in his head until he points the motel out to Dean.

“You guys having a family reunion or something?”

“Excuse me,” asks Dean, eyeing the motel manager like a potential grenade.

“A family reunion; some guy with the same last name came in a few days ago, checked out a room for the entire week.”  The guys hand Dean the keys and Sammy gives him this charming smile.

“Yeah, we just got here early.”  The man nods and Dean is proud of the way the lie just drips off Sammy’s tongue.  They break into John Winchester’s room with no sweat.  They stare at the etched names when the door closes, dealers and junkies names crossed off with big red x’s.  There’s even a sample of the product on the desk and with some examination, proves to be crack cocaine.  Definitely ghosts then.  “Hey Dean,” calls Sam, his voice calling Dean from his calculations on street price.  “There’s still one left.”  One name not x’ed out, a woman in a pretty white dress and they’re distracted then by the brief wailing of cop sirens.  Dean peers around the curtains.

“Sam, grab the name and get out of here.”

“But—“

“Do it!  Dad wouldn’t leave a job and we don’t have time for this.”  Dean stays inside long enough to see Sam grab a pen.  “Good afternoon officers!”

“US Marshall huh?”  Dean shrugs.  “Fake marshals, fake IDs; is there anything about you that’s real?”

“My breasts.”  Dean just smiles as they slam him onto the car hood and give him a new pair of bracelets.  Dean fiddles his thumbs in the interrogation room and remembers Sam’s first time.

Sam’s fifteen and John lets him pick.  Dean can remember the way Sam’s shoulders flex when he jabs a finger at the brunette, noticing that she’s a shape-shifter: buys he cigarettes two cartons two at a time.  He ruffles his brother’s hair as John pins the picture to the wall and leaves to do the research.  Dean spends hours lying with his brother on his chest, whispering questions and methods and descriptions in Sammy’s ear until they both fall asleep.  John wakes them up at midnight and Sam’s so excited that he’s almost bouncing off the walls while the other two pack him a bag.  They break into her house and it’s easy to find her in bed, gag her, and then it’s up to Sam.  He ties her hand together on the headboard, ties her feet to the foot of the bed, and she’s already crying.  Dean and John stand watch outside the bedroom door, for the cops and her; can’t have the cops coming upon a murder in progress and can’t have her overpowering Sam.  The bag is sitting unopened beside the bed and Sam goes to rifle through it from his spot straddling her hips.  Dean wondered what his brother would pick: poisons, knives, guns, things more obscure.  Dean likes knives and the pooling of blood himself but he knows that Sam is a different kind of animal.

She starts begging through her gag then, voice high and whiny, and Sam backhands her across the face, effectively shutting her up.  Dean can see the slap’s worked too, because Sam’s already half-hard through his jeans, a hard glint in his eyes.  Sam does it again, uses his palm this time to get the full force of his arm behind it.  His grin is enormous as her head violently swings sideways.  Sam experiments using fists, palms, and knees along her body.  He uses his teeth too, biting viciously on the inside of her thighs just short of drawing blood.  They looked to the entire world like love bites and hickies.  Then with a long look at his hands, he wraps them around her neck, pets the bones with his thumbs before pressing into her windpipe.  Sam riders her thrashing like a pro until she goes limp.  Dean ignores that his brother’s just come in his jeans and Sam is ecstatic for two whole weeks.

Dean’s brought out of this reverie by the bang of an evidence box slammed on the table.  “Care to tell me what you’re doing impersonating a federal marshal,” asks the detective, taking the seat opposite the Winchester.

“Double dog dare.”  Dean just leans back in his seat, stares the man down.

“Sure Dean.”  He doesn’t mean to flinch but hearing his name on that man’s lips makes his fingers itch for a leather-bound handle.  “Figured that was your name; I found it in here,” the detective says, pulling out a spiral journal, flipping it open to the right page and pointing.  Dean stares at the familiar spiky print, leather, and pages.  “I tried to read it but it doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense.”  The officer’s mouth opens again, probably ask another question, but the door opens and he hurries away.  Dean’s quick to grab the paperclip in among the things papers.  Slipping his cuffs quickly after, Dean grabs the journal and climbs out the window.  He laughs as he climbs into the Impala a few streets over.

“Took your time Sammy.”  Sam just glares, starts driving out of town as Dean waves the book in his face.  “They found Dad’s journal for us.”  Dean smiles, because here, on the road, with Sam’s frown is how it’s supposed to be.  Dad would be ideal, but he’ll take it.   “You get the address?”

“Yes,” Sam grumbles but then he’s pulling over into the gravel harshly.  “You’re an idiot you know.”  Dean waits.  “They could have caught you, easily, and are you really stupid enough to risk yourself over one job?”

“I’m stupid enough to risk myself so that you can climb out a window.”  Sam’s out of the car then, pulling Dean’s door open and pulling him out.  He leaves before Dean can even protest.  Muttering, Dean trades the journal with the handgun kept in the small of his back.  Putting up a thumb, Dean hijacks the first car that stops.  He finds Sammy sitting in her driveway right before he drives the Impala into the living room.  Swearing, Dean pulls over and runs inside to find Sam already wrestling her to the ground.  Samuel’s face is riddled with hunting adrenaline and lust; Dean knows this means that Sam will take a while.

“Mom?”  The Winchesters look up to see two small kids looking at them from the top of the stairs.  Dean just nods at his brother, setting the gun in the back seat of his Baby, replacing it with a standard sportsman’s hunting knife.  The kids are easy enough to find and he slits their throats from behind.  The blood’s not enough, there’s not enough ritual, but it’s a rule to be quick with kids and witnesses.  The slickness on his fingers is good though, even if he has to wash it off as soon as he gets it.  When he comes downstairs Sam is finishing her off, that smile on his face, the one Dean has longed to see for four years.

“Dude, you better not have broken my car,” Dean says as Sam is done.  The Impala is barely scratched and they’re on the road in no time.  Dean wants Sammy to stay, purge the world with him, continue to help him find Dad, but he says nothing, just pulls onto the highway back to Stanford.  He drops Sam off, but he sits on the street for a few seconds before deciding to say goodbye.  When he gets to the door it’s open and he finds Sammy standing at the doorway of his bedroom.  “Sam,” Dean starts just as Sam turns on the light to the room.  The Winchesters stare as Jessica and another man separate quickly, Jessica covering herself with the sheets as the guys shoves himself back in his boxers.  Dean glares.  “I call your ex.”

Sam’s already driving his fists into the boy’s face.  Jessica tries to beg him but Dean creates a deep cut in her abdomen.  Dean thinks he can see the pulsing of her stomach for a second and it is one of the most satisfying things to happen to him recently.  Dean turns from the dying girl to see Sam break the guy’s neck.  Sam throws his stuff into the Impala as Dean pours the lighter fluid.  Samuel gets the honor of lighting the match.  “So where to,” he asks as Dean pulls out of his parking spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! So in an effort to save time and my sanity, I'm only going to rewrite episodes that I deem important to the plot.


	3. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First set of scenes behind the episodes of the show. Sam and Dean's version of the domestic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowowowow sorry that took so long, school and writer's block will do that.  
> Reminder that Ghosts are crack addicts. Also a note that "The Gift" is another name for John's journal.

            “I’m bored.”

            “What’s that Sammy?”  Dean glances over from where his eyes are on the road to see his brother slouched and staring out the window.  Sam’s taken out the long shoelace again, winding and unwinding it from his hands over and over again.  To anyone else, Sam would look bored, but Dean recognizes it as Sam’s personal replacement for his garrote wire.  It means Sam’s on edge, has the coiled feeling his gut that begs for a life under his hands.  “God Sam, it’s been two days.  Can’t keep it in your fucking pants can you?”  Sam scowls, winds the shoelace around one of his hands completely and watches as his fingers turn purple.

            “Easy for you to say, you’ve had a steady diet.”  Dean can give him that; four years without one kill would have driven him up a wall.  “There’s a couple of Ghosts in Houston.”  Dean frowns because Houston’s at least half an hour out of their way and they _have_ to find Dad.

            “Common Sam we don’t have time for that.”  Sam shifts at that, winds the string tightly in his fists like he’s ready to strangle anyone without a second thought.  This falters Dean, because Sam’s always been the one for planning and researching, keeping them on track; his baby brother wanting it this bad was a big leap for the kid.  “We have to find Dad.”

            “Yeah because Dad wants to be found…”  Dean hears the accusation that Sam doesn’t voice, about Dad’s absentmindedness when it came to hunting, how their Dad would just get so focused he forget things, how even if he was sorry he would never apologize.  Dean doesn’t speak until fifteen minutes later as he takes the first exit towards Houston.

            “I know,” he says quietly but it’s obvious Sam hears from the way a smile lights up his face, more for the kill then Dean giving up a piece of his absolute faith in Dad.  Hell, Dean thinks as some girl’s blood drips from his fingers, one of his brother’s hands clasped around a dude’s throat as the other pulls Dean into a bruising, teeth crashing kiss, the lust overriding caution, the loss of the time was totally worth it.

~

            They stop at some wayside diner in Mississippi for lunch a few days.  The trail on Dad was running cold as of late and they’ve been trying to obey speed limits and _rules_ in the hope that it will allow them to better spot dad’s movements.  It was Sam’s idea of course, and he’s still purring with pride over that, not that the plan has been working so far.  So the Winchester’s stop for lunch, find a booth to settle themselves in.  Sam’s foot taps on the ground as he plays with his hands and his menu; Dean’s stiff as a board, even his movements lacking the fluidity that they normally hold.  They haven’t hunted in weeks, taking “time off” and it’s beginning to catch up with them.  Dean can see a family a couple of booths over, a tired mom and dad with three spastic kids.  He wonders how the parents would scream for him to stop as he cuts into their kids.  Sam keeps eyeing the waitress, wanting to see bruises blossom on her skin, across her stomach and cheekbones and neck.  Dean orders a burger and a side of fries with a black coffee; Sam orders a chicken salad with coffee.

            “We can’t do this much longer Dean.”  The need is corkscrewed in Sam’s gut like a viper and he keeps getting muscle spasms in his arms.  He pulls out the shoelace again to fiddle with because it’s better than the garrote wire that’s sitting perfectly coiled in the back pocket of his jeans.  It’s not better feeling on his hands but garrote wires are generally considered bad news in small town diners.  Sam ties the ends of the shoelace together, starts playing Cat’s Cradle.  “We’re going nuts; I don’t think you’ve slept in two days.”  Dean nods stiffly.

            “Yeah, I feel like I’m all strung up on a wall, like someone’s puppet.”  Dean pauses, stares at the family again as the youngest boy tried to put mashed potatoes in his sister’s hair.  “How many people you think there are in this diner?”

            “About ten patrons, two waitresses, and probably two or three cooks, so about fifteen total.”

            “Damn.”

            “There isn’t a job for miles but we have to find something.  Hell Dean, at this point I’ll take a dog.”  Sam pauses to look up from his game and meets his brother’s green eyes.  “How many you think we could get using guns?”  Dean smiles at him.  Dean’s out to the car and back with a duffel just before their waitress sets down their food.  As they eat that one family leaves (a pity, Dean thinks) only to be quickly replaced by some cheerleading team.  Sam loses rock-paper-scissors, so he slips two sawed-offs into his jacket before slipping into the kitchen.  Somehow, he manages to sabotage the back door before they notice him.  Shotgun in each hand, Sam smirks.  “How’s it going boys?”  When Sam herds them out of the back, Dean already has the blinds closed and the doors chained.  Dean pulls out his own gun and sends a shot into the ceiling.

            “How about we start this party?”  Sam grins like a loon while Dean pauses to wink at one of the cheerleaders.  They get the other restaurant goers all in one spot with a little motivation in the form Sam holding one of his guns to a five year old boy’s head.

            “What do you want with us,” asks a waitress, their waitress, mascara already running and one of the cheerleaders clinging to her.

            “Aw common honey, what wouldn’t two model citizens want with a pretty girl like you?”  All of them are sniveling and God is it pathetic.  “Hey Sammy, how about a head count?”

            “Twenty-three,” he replies without pause, eyes trailing slowly through the group.  Dean slips his jacket off into the duffel bag and rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, charming smile still on his lips as Sam’s own grows wider and wider.  Dean grabs the nearest cheerleader; handgun already tucked into his jeans, uses one hand to pull her head back onto his shoulder, pulls out a switchblade, and slits her throat.  The screams are like holy music to his ears, the warmth of her blood on his arms like a good shot of whiskey.  It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but it takes the edge off sends the tension raining off his shoulders.

            “Twenty-two,” Dean says and Sam laughs as Dean points pistols at the crowd again, the one from his jeans making a reappearance and the opening act of another.  Sam grabs the other waitress, slips his garrote wire into his hands, shotguns at his feet, and chokes her until she’s purple, even after, until he’s laying a corpse on the ground, putting the wire away to again wield his guns.  “Better Sam, because that was a horrible plan of yours you know.”

            “It was logically sound,” the younger Winchester replies with a slight pout.

            “Yeah, well we’re not going that long without again, got it?  Now are we going free for all or splitting?”

            “Free for all seems appropriate.”  In minutes they’re covered in blood splatter, all the patrons dead, and a couple of hundreds stolen from the register as they drive down the road with the windows down, ACDC blasting through the speakers, and Sam jacking off in the passenger seat.

~

            “Dean,” Sam whispers harshly, but Dean just grumbles, digs his head further into his pillow and pulls the blanket further over his face.  Sam chuckles as he shrugs on his jacket before grabbing a room key and heading outside, locking the door behind him.  He forgoes the Impala; he’d prefer to walk instead, turns up his collar to the Minnesota cold and shoves his hand in his pockets.  The cold is clarity to his muddled brain, college lessons warring with everything he’s known.  It’s strange, in some ways, how four years can define your entire social conception of the world, maybe even just a plain old psychological conception about how the world works.  It’s 7 AM and there’s almost no foot traffic, and traffics only a bit heavier in the vehicle department, so no one pays attention the large man clad in denim, plaid, and leather among them.  There’s a little diner on the corner and Sam hopes to get a mug of coffee, but if not there’s a Starbucks a couple of blocks over that could suit his needs.  Sam doesn’t really sleep, gets an average of six hours a day in a good week, and his roommates at college caught on fast.  They introduced him to caffeine and he’d been hooked ever since.  There are so many reasons for his sleep: military training, nightmares, good dreams, an itch beneath his skin that he can’t chase.  Sam brushes the thought off like crumbs off a table, buries himself further into his jacket when he finds the diner still closed.

            Sam remembers every line of that damn journal of Dad’s like he knows how all of his limbs bend.  If the old man were to ask, he could quote entire passages on command; he’d been asked to often enough already.  Dean had barely written in his portion the year Sam left but he would bet Dean’s section is full and Dad’s shit had edits.  His fingers twitch in a phantom need to write in it, that part of his brain screaming at him but Sam’s been ignoring it for years.  He has nothing comprehensive to add anyway.  Then there’s Jess, or the voice of Jess, Sam reminds himself, asking why his grip is so tight, why he needs that particular method almost every time.  He’d almost told her the past, his past, so many times but Sam holds that secret dearer than his own life.  The normalcy of college life, studying and friends, versus his upbringing is a large war, turbulent in his head.  Sam is so _angry_ and even thinking about that anger makes his fingers twitch for the garrote wire he keeps in his pocket at all times nowadays.  He’s almost to coffee though, resists what his Dad would call his “divine purpose”.  The fingers of Sam’s hand are about to latch around the door handle when his phone starts buzzing.  Sam barely has the thing at his ear before Dean’s muttering urgently in at him.  “Sam, dude, where’d you go my God—“

            “I walked a couple of blocks over to get coffee, go back to sleep; it’s not even 7:30.”  Dean snorts through his nose and Sam can see in his mind’s eye the crease forming between his brother’s eyebrows.

            “Don’t go sticking out like a sore thumb, keep your head down—“

            “I can take care of myself Dean.  You want anything?”  Dean grumbles a “no” and Sam hangs up before he can say anything else.  The line isn’t long and he orders whatever can hold three espresso shots, waits just long enough to get the thing before he’s out the door.  The caffeine fires straight through his veins and Sam can feel the knot in his back unwinding with every swallow.  Sam’s almost back to the motel when the memory hits him so hard that he’s frozen in place.

            Dad’s eyes are hard coals above him and Sam is terrified.  He’s only seven and he can’t practice as well as Dean can.  Dad’s upset, because “ _you have to be ready so that you can help God, don’t you want to help God Sammy?_ ”  Sam cried, said he did, but John tied his wrists anyway, hangs him form the wall, his face pressed into the wood.  Sam can see Dean poking his head out of the cabin’s bathroom.  Dean’s eleven, everything Dad needs in his soldiers and Sam’s the screw up, still can’t aim a rifle well at all.  Dad, well now Sergeant John, is angry because Sam failed his knife test.  He can’t help it, the knife handle is awkward in his hands and fingers, but mistakes are punishable according to The Gift, in accordance with ecclesiastical law, no exceptions.  Sam tries not to cry as John rips his shirt off, skin exposed to cool air.  The first blow of the whip hurts more than he wants to admit; a whimper escapes his clenched teeth.  “ _Is that a protest stated out of proper channels soldier?_ ”

            “ _No sir._ ”  John continues with his beating until Sam’s back is raw, until he can feel the blood slipping past his jeans and underwear to mark his backside and legs, even keeps going after the fact.  Sam’s limp from the stretch in his arms and pain in his back, relying on the rope and the wall to keep him upright.  He flinches when he hears the whip fall upon something else.

            “ _He’s had enough sir._ ”

            “ _Is that disobeying an order Corporal?_ ”

            “ _It’s an observation sir; the Private is barely conscious._ ”  Sam admires the way his brother’s voice doesn’t break.

            “ _Very well, you may tend to him._ ”  Sam notes the spatial change more than the actual touches on his frame to tell him that he’s moved.  He cracks his eyes open to see the large welt that is forming diagonally across his brother’s face.

            “ _Dean…_ ”

            “ _Don’t, you’re worse._ ”  No one speaks for the rest of the night, even as Dean patches him up and Sam tries to go to sleep without crying.  The next morning isn’t as bad as Sam would have thought; the wounds scabbing up overnight, the water of his shower softening them but not taking them off.  Training today starts at the practice dummy, and Sam sinks easily into the repetitive motion of hand-to-hand combat, ignores the pain in his back knowing he has a bandage to account for bleeding.  Sam’s anger gets the best of him eventually (its sunk so deep in his subconscious he’s not sure of its source anymore), and soon he’s beating the dummy hard enough that he could break his hands.  With a near feral growl, Sam executes a perfect roundhouse kick to the thing’s head.  He breaks into a smile, turns to accept praise from his father, but John Winchester is too focused on Dean’s shooting practice to have seen.  Sam’s smile twists.

            The scene shifts and Sam’s sitting on a couch while Jessica plops down beside him, bowl of popcorn in hand as Sam presses play on the remote to start some movie as they sit in the dark.  Sam doesn’t always get the purpose of movies, but Jess likes them well enough and that’s a good enough reason.  He doesn’t really know what the plot is, or cares, but it’s some action thing involving guns, knives, and plenty of beatings.  “ _Are you okay?_ ”  Sam flinches away from her touch on instinct, realizes that he’d zoned out for a couple of minutes as his breath grew shallower and he got harder and harder in his jeans.  His face goes hot and he feels filthy but _alive_.

            “ _Yeah, fine, I’m just going o go to the bathroom for a second…_ ”  He’s away before he can even see her face, even see if she noticed, and in the electric glow of the bathroom light he looks less like a college student, a soldier, and more like a terrified teenager halfway through their first prom.  Sam wonders if he could run again, knows somewhere in the back of his head that the only true outlet for this would be a bullet to the head, but he doesn’t have a gun and that one bullet would earn him an express pass to Hell.  Sam leans toward the sink, a hand on either side of it clenching desperately at porcelain, and he can feel his erection trapped in his jeans.  There’s a knock on the door.

            “ _Sam?_ ”  Jess’ voice is cautious, careful, and Sam grimaces, tightens his hands on the sink.  “ _It’s okay you know, to have kinks.  You haven’t had sex in years right?  Sam, I’m not scared._ ”  Sam only really hears his own shallow breath when he leans a hand over and unlocks the door.  It swings open with its normal squeal of protest and he can feel Jess’ eyes on him until she gently turns him to look at her.

            “ _You can’t trust me,_ ” he says lowly but clearly, and this might be the most honest moment he’s had since he left them.  “ _I can’t trust anyone, no one but…_ ”  He bites his lip instead of finishing his sentence, stares at her through the fringe of his lengthening hair.  Jess kisses him, kisses up Sam’s jaw to his ear.

            “ _Fuck me,_ ” she whispers and the way she says it is filthy; Sam’s got a hand tangled in her hair and a hand on her ass before he can think about it.  She keeps talking as Sam carries her to bed.  “ _Do what you need to do Sam.  I trust you, you won’t hurt me.  I trust you._ ”  The memory gets kind of unclear from there.  Clothes are removed eventually, Jess’ hands tied to the bed posts using Sam’s belt.  He gives her bruises, remembers to use a condom, and as he enters her is hands come to rest on her throat.  He hesitates, but Jess nods, gives him this, and Sam presses fingers into her throat as he fucks her dirty.  She keeps murmuring “ _I trust you_ ” over and over as they go, mouths it when air leaves her lungs entirely.  His hands leave her neck as he comes and she comes a few breaths after him.  He unties her hands as they separate, throws the condom away properly, and she whispers his name harshly into his chest as they go to sleep.

            Then Sam remembers John grabbing his forearm, Sam’s bone breaking through the skin.

            Sam remembers the look on Jessica’s face when he comes back from his road trip.

            Sam’s on the sidewalk again, maybe a grand total of ten minutes have passed.  His coffee is colder but he’s nauseous anyway, throws it in the nearest trash can.  That’s when he finds out he’s shaking.  Sam clashes his teeth together, sinks his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, and squeezes his eyes shut.  There was a time when he could see John’s angry face behind his closed eyes, but now all he sees in the half-smirk of that man, miscreant, _demon_ who existed within the same space as Jessica that night.  Sam can feel the anger boiling up from his bones and spreading through his body like radiation poisoning and he would give up entire parts of his holy soul if he could torture both of them nice and slow.  Sam’s never had anything to write in that stupid book, never wanted to, and now his fingers itch for a pen because of that hell-spawn that lives behind his eyelids in permanent residence.  Sam heads back to the motel when he feels his fingers drawing blood from his hands.  He ignores his brother’s murmured worries as he tears the journal open and rips the cap off a pen with his teeth.


	4. You've Got a Past in California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two small scenes from Phantom Traveler, one chunk of Wincest that takes place immediately after Phantom Traveler, and the rewrite of Skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry this took so incredibly long to do, for a variety of factors. General warnings for blood/gore/death as usual, along with hallucinations, and that fact that Sam is very sensitive to touch sometimes.

            He’s not really sleepy; he doubts he even sleeps anymore, it’s more of a dose as he stays half-awake, so when the door opens Dean inches a hand under his pillow to his knife and prepares himself for attack.  “Morning,” says Sam, so Dean rolls over, pretends he can sleep normal.

            “Dude, what time is it?”

            “Like, 5:54 or something.”  Sam gestures with the coffees in his one hand and the donuts in his other.

            “Did you even sleep?”

            “I grabbed a couple hours.”

            “No, you’re still having nightmares about your Reawakening; any new ideas for your Book?”  Sam just shakes his head, ignores the question.

            “This ever get to you Dean?  Our work for God?”

            “Not really…”  Sam lurches forward and Dean thinks for a second that they’ll have another bruising kiss like one from the night before (Dean only half remembers pulling on his boxers before he went to sleep) but his brother swerves halfway there and pulls the knife out from under Dean’s pillow.  He pulls one of his questioning bitch faces.  “That’s called precaution Sam.”

            “I think the word you’re actually looking for is paranoia.”

            “Shut up.”  Dean’s ringtone pierces the air and it’s clear from Sam’s expression that he’ll let the subject drop for now as Dean picks up.  “Hello?”

~

            “Plan B,” Sam says and Dean starts to feel his skin crawl.  “We get on the plane.”

            “Wait, hold on…”

            “Dean, there’s hundreds of passengers and it’s our duty to save them.  I’ll get the tickets and you get what you can that’ll pass security.”  Dean can feel the scream building under his skin, a banshee wail cracking his surface to split free.  “Dude, are you okay?”

            “No, I have a problem with- with…”

            “Flying?”  Then Sam’s there, in his space, sealing the cracks and killing the scream with his angelic presence, even as he cups Dean’s face, runs one thumb along his cheekbone.  “Listen to me, just because we are fallen doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to fly.  We are fallen but we didn’t Fall; angels on Earth remember?  God won’t let you die today, and I won’t either.”  Dean takes a deep breath and nods.

~

            Sam practically throws him into the backseat of the Impala after they get out of the airport, clambers in after him to close the door, leans down to kiss Dean’s neck.  “We just exorcised a demon on a plane big brother,” he pants, and Dean can tell _exactly_ how much Sam’s been waiting for this, probably since they stepped on the freaking plane and probably waiting to go since they took their first slice at the guy in baggage, “killed him right under their noses.  Going to let you fuck me so hard you can’t even think about planes for forty-eight hours, only the come that you know is dripping out of my ass.”  Dean growls.  Dean loves sex possibly more than anyone but there’s something about his baby brother wanting to be fucked that makes it more than a game to him, makes it violent and desperate in different ways.  Dean gets them turned around, Sam’s shirts hitched half-way up his chest and jeans shimmied down his hips, Dean gripping his hips as he tongues at his brother’s navel.  “Fuck, Jesus, _Dean_.”

            “I ain’t no prophet baby boy,” Dean says, breathes against his brothers stomach, gone soft in the four years he’s been gone, uses a hand to unbuckle belt, slip the button, and drag down the zipper of his brother’s jeans, “but you can pray to me if you like.”  He hears his brother’s breath hitch, ignores Sam’s pants again to apply tongue and teeth to Sam’s stomach.  Sam’s moan turns into a growl as he reaches his hands to pull his own pants down.  “Dirty little cock slut,” Dean says affectionately.  They don’t even get undressed fully, Sam’s boxers and jeans at his ankles, Dean’s own pants three quarters of the way down his thighs, hips twisting deep into Sam’s little hole, his brother hissing but Sammy’s the one who didn’t want lube, and Dean swallows his curses by breathing in his brother’s words.  One of Dean’s favorite things to do is kiss Sammy during sex, because his brother is needy and sloppy and uses too much tongue or too much teeth, and Dean enjoys it, almost more than the actual sex.  So if Dean gets balls deep and does nothing else for five minutes to kiss Sam, who could really blame him.

            Dean stops kissing Sam when his brother gets close, listens to his brother moan and scream, caress Dean’s name with his voice wrecked, and his scream is wordless as he comes over them both.  Dean comes with a simple grunt, hunches over Sam’s heaving chest, but he pulls out when he’s done, replaces Sam’s pants and pats him on the cheek.  “You have to wait until the motel for the next round baby boy.”

~

            “Sam wears women’s underwear…”

            “I’m listening; I’m just not looking at you.”  Dean just shrugs, gets out of his Baby to gas her up. 

            “What are you doing anyway?”

            “Checking emails.”  Sam ignores the way that his brother’s eyes slide to The Book from where it’s resting on his thigh, the pens he knows are scattered at his feet, and switches to another email on his PDA.

            “You still talk to your college friends?  What do you even tell them?”  Dean’s always been a man of the Word, the true follower of their father’s Prophecy.  Sam’s not, wants to be wholeheartedly, but he hasn’t found that faith yet, so he keeps his attachments to earthly people, their attachment to moral fluidity and unruly faith, a reminder of what he could have been born as and a connection to him and the nature of human sin.  Keeping himself human.

            “I tell them that after the Jess fiasco I’m taking a road trip with my big brother.  The just don’t know the exact details.”

            “So you lie,” Dean says has his lips hook up into a smirk.

            “I just withhold most of the truth…”

            “That’s called lying Sam.”

            “Shut up.”  Dean walks away laughing and Sam wonders briefly if they’re paying for this particular tank of gas.  He switches to another email, and as he reads he’s pretty sure that had it been a letter, there would be tears smudging the ink and paper.  “Whoa…”

            “What is it?”

            “This is from Rebecca, apparently her brother Zack killed his girlfriend…”

            “Dude, you were hanging out with our kind of people.”

            “She thinks he didn’t do it.  Dean, the guy has maybe one cigarette a month but he doesn’t kill people.”  Sam remembers that cigarette too, the way his eyes narrow at it as the group all takes one behind the library, passing the pack and lighter around, and when it reaches Sam his fingers ache to bring the things to pieces but he just passes it on, glares at it as it goes.

            _“Sam, come on, it’s just one cigarette.”_

 _“I don’t smoke_.”  Sam calculates how fast it would take it to kill Zack as he lights the thing, then how hard it would be to kill everyone else, if only to have something to focus on that isn’t rage.

            _“God, Jess, is he always such a prick?”_   Zack and the others laugh, but Sam isn’t bothered, meager walkers of the Earth as they are, and Sam may not believe in the heroic destiny foretold by his father but he sure as Hell is certain that he is a walking archangel.  _“How do you let the guy in your pants?”_

 _“Zach, I swear I will actually stick my fist so far up your ass that it will be in your throat and my elbow will be stabbing your liver.”_   Sam laughs into his fist, but they drop it, even if Jess clings to his side and glares at Zach, Sam’s hand pressed possessively into her waist, and his glare icy enough to put out the cigarettes themselves.

            “God, the guy’s a fucking dick, but I’m pretty sure he’s not a murderer.”  Sam can see his brother weighing options, the calculating way his gaze slides along Sam and his blessed Impala.

            “Doesn’t mean it’s our kind of thing Sammy...”

            “It’s Sam, and we’re going.”  Dean grumbles but when he’s done putting gas in his precious car they’re pulling away like the thieves they are, and they head towards St. Louis.  It’s a few hours of cramped car conditions, junk food, Dean’s classic rock music, and one too many chips thrown at each other’s heads but it’s worth it for Sam when he sees Rebecca smile.  “Hey Becky…”

            “Sam!”  She runs out the door, all delicate features and blonde hair, throws her arms around his neck, and Sam distinctly remembers their being a no touching rule after that one time he almost put Clark in the hospital.  She’s already off him though, beaming.  “You didn’t have to come!  I mean, after Jess…”

            “It’s no big deal.”  His words are crisp and chill, her smile falls a fraction, but she knows well enough not to push.

            “This must be big brother then.”

            “Hi, I’m Dean.”  Sam thinks he hates this place, hates the way the air feels like it drags across his skin like sandpaper, how it bombards him with memories of Stanford, how those memories are good and bad, how he can tell they mellowed him out, and how when he closes his eyes he can still see Jess’ startled eyes, naked over that boy, his hands cupping her breasts…  So Sam listens to Rebecca’s bullshit story, knows it’s a lie by her body language and tone of voice until he loses his patience and brings it up.

            “Becks, how about you cut the shit and you _tell me_ what you’ve been doing.”  She flinches like it’s a physical blow, like Sam just slapped her upside the head and he gets a certain amount of vindictive pleasure out of it.

            “I-I don’t…”

            “Rebecca, I know you’re lying to me and you need to _tell me_ or there’s no way I’m helping, I’m leaving, and I won’t tell you what happened to Jess.”  Dean gives him the side-eye, fire hiding behind eyes and physical intent, but Sam is the chill to Dean’s heat just as Dean can be the ice to Sam’s fire, so he barely blinks as he stares Rebecca down, watches the blood drain from her face.

            “Sam, it’s not what you think, he-“

            “ _TELL ME._ ”  She’s shaking like a god damn leaf and Sam has missed having this much dictional power over anyone, being able to control them so clearly with words and tone of voice, so he almost purrs when she answers him, even if she does avoid his eyes, looking at Dean instead.  His college friends always did understand that he was a dangerous animal in the guise of a domestic one.

            “His nicotine just spiraled out of control- after our friend group broke up- until it wasn’t enough.  Zach had some friends that he somehow managed to cut drugs with, mixing like chewing tobacco with psychedelics or something.  He was hallucinating, oh God, he was hallucinating he didn’t mean it.”  Sam’s frigid composure slightly breaks and he reaches out a hand to smooth it once over her skinny shoulder.

            “Tell your lawyer.  He’ll get charged for possession but he might get a reduced murder sentence.”  Sam sweeps out of the house, Dean following until the elder Winchester spins him around by the shoulder near his car.

            “God Sam, what was that, you’re going to get us caught like that.”

            “No, I’m really not, they’re used to it.”  Like the time that Sam destroyed a former friend’s entire social life in three well placed, well-orchestrated conversations; or when he once almost threw Zach himself off the roof of a building for bringing it up his father; or even just his general cold lurking.  Yeah, he got better with Jess and with time but it never quite _left_ and there were enough examples to freak his friends out; they never said anything.  “You haven’t seen me in four years Dean, and a month or so on a road isn’t going to stitch that together.  I changed, you half-wit, now are we hunting down these shapeshifters or not.”  Dean grinds his teeth, but he doesn’t argue again, and Sam wonders if it’s just because he’s the little brother or if it’s because of Dean’s slightly compulsive need to obey orders. They rent a motel room.  Within hours, the walls are covered in notes and pictures, and it turns out that Zach’s not the only one who jumped off the deep end; a few others in the organization have cracked as well.  Even as they research, the police scanner sends a report of another one, another one who’s killed his girlfriend.  “We need an example of product,” Sam says casually and Dean scowls but heads out the door.  He knows that they’re fighting, but he couldn’t give a shit because this is _his problem_ for letting them sin so long, his mistake to fix.

            “Dude, the house is totally clean.”  Sam swears but Dean’s smiling, that confident one that got him in trouble in high school, and Sam will admit that he’s intrigued.  Dean is not as dumb as he lets people think he is: a defense mechanism.  “I know where they’re mixing.”  Sam smiles and as they drive back to the motel for supplies, he cleans his garrote wire.  The sewer system is a strange place to run an illegal drug ring, but Sam is sure there’s been weirder; you could be using beehives or something.  They have to split up half-way through, there’s too much sewer and not enough time for how many members are still left.  They’ve been separated for approximately half an hour when one of them jumps Sam from behind.  Spinning quickly, Sam slams his attacker into the wall, who let’s go long enough for Sam to spin away, draw his silenced pistol from his jeans, and shoot him in the head.  Sam’s disappointed that he couldn’t have made it last longer, feel the man’s breath stutter under his hands, watch him choke on his own throat as he runs out of air.  It’s another hour before Sam gets knocked out.

            When Sam wakes up he’s momentarily terrified, knows that he’s been captured by shapeshifters of all things and then he bypasses terror to skip straight to pissed off, but when he opens his eyes he’s just staring at his brother.  “Dean?”  When Dean turns he’s covered in dirt, eyes bloodshot and pupils blown.

            “They vaporized it dude, totally vaporized it, strong stuff man strong stuff.”

            “Dean-“

            “Got to go get that Rebecca chick you know, we can’t have your loyalties split between Heaven and Earth, not smart, not smart…”  Dean’s so high and Sam tries his best to cut the rope that his brother has wound around his torso, tied him to a support pillar with.  He needs to escape, get the rest of the shapeshifters and destroy the product, get Dean somewhere long enough to come down.  “Sorry Sammy, pretty college friend has a date with my knives.”  Then Dean’s blended into the shadows, gone without a trace.  It took Sam another couple of minutes to get free.  It’s easier than it should be to find the work place, and it takes one bullet per scumbag.  Sam destroys the vaporizers with the efficiency born of slight OCD tendencies, destroys the product itself so well that it can no longer be used.  Sam Winchester slips out of the sewer without a glance from passersby, checks his phone for Dean’s GPS, luckily turned on.  Sam needs a drink, he needs to find his brother and get a drink, then make his brother detox and order a nice hooker.  He’s still not sure what side he’s on, if he will destroy the Earth with his brother or if he needs to coexist with humanity, and this just emphasizes that, drives him to near distraction and God, he could really use that drink.  Sam finds his brother behind a dumpster, arms covered in blood, blade in his hands, and when Sam kneels next to him he just whispers “police” and the Winchester can tell his brother is coming down.  Sam clutches Dean’s elbow, hauls him upright, but then there’s police sirens.

            “Dean, run.”  Dean just mutters and drops some in his grip.  “Damn it Dean, they can’t hold me, _go_.”  Dean blinks a few times, but he’s running away, hopefully to safety.  “Don’t do anything stupid!”  The cops are too far away to hear any of that, but they get Sam handcuffed and in the squad car anyway, rush him to the station.  Sam manages to lie and puppy dog gaze his way through an interrogation by the detectives, and they release him before their 48 hours are up, heck, Sam was barely in there 5.  He finds Dean back at their motel, where he handcuffed himself to the sink, and his brother’s mostly passed out on the floor.  “Dude, you got to be careful what you take.”

            “Fuck off,” Dean groans, but Sam just laughs quietly, goes to get him some water.  Their prey thinks it’s a good idea to fight them with their very sins; this is not by far their first detox rodeo.  “Whatever it is has a hell of a crash dude; I think I might start puking soon.”

            “I didn’t need to know.”  Sam smiles though, stares at his brother’s prone form for a few minutes.  “Am I good to undo those metal cuffs?”

            “Should be, far as I can tell; I’m in the full effect of the actual crash now.”  Sam just shrugs, undoes his brother from the sink, who promptly drags himself to the toilet and vomits.  Sam _knows_ that he didn’t want Rebecca dead, is glad that Dean didn’t kill her, but god is he jealous of his brother’s time to act out their duty; his was rushed and half-assed, simple shots to the head and destruction of a drug lab and Sam needs a windpipe under his hands, something more _solid_.  Maybe that’s what drives him from the room, not the food he told Dean he was getting, what makes him knock on Rebecca’s door at all.

            “Your brother’s not with you…is he?”

            “No, he’s apparently on the run, I-I can’t believe he…are you okay?”  Sam’s not sure exactly how convincing it is, but she lets him inside, hands him a beer, and sits on her chair.  “I can’t believe you’re not in the hospital…”

            “Apparently some of it was your own brother’s blood or something, and most of the cuts were actually pretty shallow.  I’m actually doing pretty well.”

            “I’m glad.”  He’s not really, they can’t afford to have witnesses, especially one that’s already talked to the police, and she needs to be _gone_.  Besides, if she was helping in her brother’s operation, she needs to be eliminated anyway.  The beer tastes like piss but at least it’s honestly just beer, and Sam’s just turning to ask what she knew about her brother’s work when there’s a needle in his neck.  He can only hope that the dose isn’t too concentrated before he briefly blacks out.  Sam decides immediately that he hates this one.  The walls are purple and almost everything is some shade of black, dark blue, or dark purple, so everything is basically black.  It’s suffocating, and the colors press on his eyes and the hair on his arms, curling its way down his throat to choke his lungs.  He’s hyperventilating without even thinking about it, trying to orient himself in blackness, can feel fabric and judges that he’s laying on his back.  He flounders weakly, bile rising in his throat from the movement, feels the rope at his hands and feet.  “Rebecca,” he slurs, knows in this moment only that she was the last person he was with.

            “I can’t have you and your brother here Sam, I know you’re with him too.  It wasn’t our fault, it was just some recreational drug use and then they got a buyer…this isn’t my fault!”

            “You-you’re one of…needle…”

            “Yes, you idiot, I can’t have you hurting everything we’ve worked for.  Can’t you see that Sam?”  The air is rolling over him, touching him in ways that make him shiver in wrong ways, but he notices when she moves into his line of vision.  Sam almost throws up.  Her eyes are now just burnt holes in her head, puss leaking from her face and mixing with blood, even as maggots move in and out of her mouth, hair clumped together in strings of dirt and mud.  She’s reached down with something, something sharp, _he knows_ it’s something sharp and he screams before it even reaches its destination.  It’s ever so shallowly dipping through the fabric of his shirts and into his chest, and Sam is praying harder than he ever has in years, his own blood being spilt adding to the power of his pleas, and when she’s finished he runs his own hands through it.  _As God has named me, I name myself in the eyes of Heaven, accept my role as His soldier; and in this very naming I am given power as he sees fit, to work as He sees fit, and work and die under His Law.  If it is His Will, I will die by His hand; if it-_ “Stop it.  STOP IT!  God, whatever you’re doing stop it; you were always fucked in the head.  You make my skin crawl just by looking at you.  I-I have to do this Sam, okay.  I have to.”  This time, when she reaches down with her knife and her nightmare face, he channels his scream into attack, flips them over.  He gets the knife to free himself, focuses more on that then he does on her movements, and by the time he does, she’s rearmed herself.

            It’s not a hard fight, quite the opposite, he has manic self-preservation and drug induced panic on his side, not to mention experience, and soon he’s driving the knife into her over and over again.  He knows he’s quoting random bits of Scripture, of the Word, and he doesn’t really know how clear his words, or his head, are when he’s being dragged from her, into the world that has resolved from the darkest of colors to perpetual grays.  “D-drugged me, attacked me, g-got…got to…got to punish her, sinners need to punished, need punishing…”  Everything’s swimming a bit, except for the blood that covers him and the knife in his hands; there’s suddenly too much _person_ holding him, and he struggles against the hands, against the groove, etch, and arch of fingerprints and the creases in hands, the skin that covers muscles and bones and blood.  He naturally goes to spin on the balls of his feet, ends up on his knees instead, staring at his compatriot, and Dean has his hands raised defensively.

            “Come on Sam, we’re okay, the authorities will blame it on me anyway but we need to get out of here.” Something in his stance is triggering alarm bells and Sam doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or the tingling sensation he can’t get out of his skin.  “Sammy, just put the knife down, and we’ll just leave okay?”

            “You’re not my brother.”  He’s about 98% positive on that, attacks him anyway, and he must be so much higher than he thought when the fake Dean has him pinned in about 5 moves.  “Let go of me, you give him back you fucking bastard.”

            “You always did have bad trips…Common Sam, let’s get you detoxed and find a way to save us from this mess, alright?”  Sam wants to argue, wants to fight somewhere, fight the suffocating feeling of the creature’s body close to his, the very air flow, but he’s already slipping into blackness.  The next morning, after Sam’s done with his vomiting and his sweats, he glares out at Dean from the bathroom floor, takes a drink of his water.

            “What you’d do to take care of things?”

            “Dude, turns out it’s astonishingly easy to fake your own death.  My funeral is in like, 7 hours or something.”  Sam just snorts, stares at the blood that still cakes his clothes and his arms.  “Sorry your friends were heathens,” Dean says quietly, flips another page in whatever book he’s reading.  Sam just nods, drags himself to the shower to cleanse himself of Rebecca’s blood, see the damage of his own wound, and reflect on his sins; he has so many of them.  As they drive out of town, Dean making sure they’re not seen, Sam slips a hand down to Dean’s knee, an anchor so that he doesn’t feel like his own purpose, _their_ purpose, is destroying who they are.  Dean doesn’t mention it.


	5. Muddy Waters of the Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam get quite sick.  
> Gets kind of trippy since he has fever dreams, flashbacks, and then actual plot but hopefully it isn't too hard to follow.

                Fingertips cool along his brow, trace with tenderness and reverence of touch, and he will swear if you ask him that he can feel the fingerprints themselves, whether arches or wheels or double loops or singular loops.  He feels them too when they trail down his neck and chest to press carefully into his hips.  He moans.  A blanket slips off his frame and the sheet clings to his sweat slicked body, cold air settling over his flesh.  When he becomes conscious he’s crying.  Dean still isn’t awake, so Sam doodles the skeletal tree from his dreams, occasionally reaching to move sweat soaked hair off his face.  Dean blearily gets up and takes a shower an hour or two later; breakfast is a couple of fresh dinner rolls, take-out diner pancakes, and large coffees.  Dean’s listing off jobs but Sam’s vision is blurring in-and-out from his drawing, so he’s not hearing a word his brother says.  “Wait…I know this tree.”  He’s up and stumbling, trying to get to The Word, and he flips it open in a daze before turning to his brother, who is staring at him with increasing skepticism and worry.  “Dean, we got to go back home; we have to save them.”

                “Sam, you’re not making sense.”  His brother has come to kneel in front of him, feeling along his forehead.  When did his brother’s hands get so cold?  “Shit Sammy, you’re burning up…we need to get you medical attention…”  Sam shakes him off.

                “No, the people in our old house, they’re in _danger_ Dean, we have to help them, we have to-“

                “Sh, Sammy, okay.  I’ll make you a deal alright?  You take a shower and sleep in the car, and I’ll get us to Kansas?”  Sam nods; lets Dean haul him to his feet and pull him into the bathroom before leaving him with a click of the door.  Sam’s hands fumble at the edges of his clothes but he peels them off his body eventually, soaked in sweat, and leaves them on the floor.  He doesn’t really remember adjusting the water before he’s under the spray.  He can’t tell if it feels hot or cold, and he holds himself up with hands splayed on the shower walls before giving up and sitting on the floor, back against the wall and the spray against his chest, and Sam closes his eyes.  He jolts awake when the curtain is yanked back, spray of water turned off, and Dean hovering over him, checking him for injuries as Sam blinks scratchy eyes at his brother.  “God Sammy, I thought you fell and died on me; don’t you do that again.”

                “’m tired Dean.”

                “I know Sammy; you can sleep in a couple of minutes okay?  We have to get you dressed and in the car…”

                “We’re going to save them right Dean?  Going to teach them about God?”

                “Course Sammy, of course we are…”  Dean keeps reassuring him as he makes him stand, towels him off and sticks him in clothes, then sits him on the bed, wraps him in an old blanket as Sam shivers.  He falls asleep again with his head on his chest, wakes up long enough to pull on a sweater and wrap himself back up in the blanket before he returns to sleep.  “Damn it Dad, pick up your damn phone, this is important.”  There’s a slam of a door and Sam cracks open his eyes from where he’d fallen sideways on the bed, blinks as Dean enters the room, strides over to him.  “Come on Sam, we’re going to the car okay, and then you can sleep all you want.”  Sam just mutters as Dean half-carries him, tucks his frame into his car and buckles him in.

                It smells of blood and oil, metallic mostly with the sweetness of glucose and plasma and the tart scent he associates with lighter fluid.  The air is rushing through his nose quickly, making the scents stronger.  There’s a strange smell that reminds him of ripped fabric somehow, then there’s the sudden scent of sweat and whiskey and laundry detergent.

                There’s spinning circles in a pool of nothing.  He realizes, dimly, that these are the planets and their moons, circling the sun.  As he watches, they form a straight line, every one, before hurtling into each other with a sound like the boom of cannons.

                He opens his eyes although they feel like a thousand pounds to find himself still wrapped in a blanket with the new weight of Dean’s jacket on top, curled up as tightly as he can get in the passenger seat, even though the seat is leaned back and he has no reason to be so cramped for space.  They’re at a gas station, the trucker across from the Impala shifting the vehicle into drive and pulling away as Sam watches.  Sam blinks bleary eyes as he watches Dean pay for gas, and whatever else he had bought for himself, before his eyes slip closed again.

                His lips and mouth are drying out as he silently mouths prayers, head bowed to his clasped hands, his rosary beads digging into his palms, and unless they call for the crowd to sing during this mass, he doesn’t move from his prayers.  He doesn’t move during communion, lost in a trance within his own relationship with God.  He only stops praying as he steps into confessional, and the priest has noticed all of it.  The priest is honored, almost impressed, by this young man’s faith and reverent prayer, wished more young people would so strongly believe in their Father.  “ _Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”_

_“Speak my child.”_

_“I have forgotten the path set for me by our Father._ ”  Devout indeed and he sincerely hopes he can help this boy.

                “ _How so?”_

_“I cannot tell you specifically, I have sworn to only discuss the path with my own people, but I have lost my way.”_

_“You are not Catholic?”_   He’s not particularly worried, but he can only give Catholic advice.

                “ _Not exactly, no.”_

 _“How have you fallen off His path, my son?”_   The young man shifts his large frame, making the bench squeak under his weight.

                _“He has a task from me to complete as I walk the Earth.  I have abandoned this task to follow my own devices.”_ Butterflies flutter throughout the priest’s stomach; a small piece of his psyche screams in fear.

                “ _God changes his plans occasionally, or perhaps this is a part of his plan.”_   The man snorts.  “ _What is your name?”_

_“Sam.”_

_“Sam, God works in ways we cannot understand.”_

_“Yes,”_ Sam returns bitingly as the butterflies spawn centipedes to claw up his veins.  “ _God does speak to us, but perhaps I have misunderstood, perhaps he is not speaking.  I was ignorant to believe a bastardized priest would know the word of God.  May you continue to forever be damned.”_   Sam throws open the confessional door, almost breaking it, and while shaking uncontrollably the priest find another clergyman to take his place.  As he vomits violently into a toilet, he decides to quit the priesthood; he becomes a competitor in professional hot dog eating, and never again until after his death by heart attack as fifty five, does he feel whole.

                There are wolves outside his bedroom window, staring in as the owl upon his bureau hoots and shakes its’ feathers.  The wolves are hungry and Sam does his best to escape the pile of corpses at his feet, but they cling to him with broken hands.  The owl is gone, instead replaced with the sneering look of a vulture, and the window opens to let the wolves in.

                There’s a hand on his shoulder and a distant “Sammy” spoke aloud, and he can barely crack his eyes open to see his brother’s face.  “We got to get you inside, Sam, common, don’t make me drag you in their by myself.”  Dean helps Sam sit before dragging him upright, slinging Sam’s arm over his shoulder, and Sam does his best to support his own weight.

                “You said you were taking me to Kansas,” he mumbles as he looks upon the familiar wooden house surrounded by rusted out cars.

                “Well you can’t show anyone God if you’re dying.”  Dean starts dragging Sam forward; Sam passes out halfway there.

                The fire burns so hot that he is numb.  His burns flake away to reveal the muscle and blood underneath, which the fire burns as well; he can taste his lungs on his teeth.  The fire liquefies, swims through his veins to send electricity to his brain.  He cannot see, and yet he is only eyes.

                Greens with pink and yellows, a meadow; the skies are a blue over these colors and the grass runs through his fingers.  The flowers’ heads bump into his palms, flower kisses.  Birdsong fills the air, even though no birds seem present.  A breeze picks at his clothes and hair, and for this one moment, he feels peaceful.

                There’s dust in the air as he walks on quiet feet through the bookshelves, everything as still as an indrawn breath, barely a cough or a shuffle or a squeak disrupting the blank, sheeted silence of the library.  Books have been his companions, stuck in libraries as he’s been since Dad started traveling, doing Dad’s research with Dean after school, or more recently, without Dean.  He laments not yet being tall enough to reach all the shelves at twelve years of age, but the librarians here know him by now and help him find what he needs, and he’s surprised that they’ve been in a town long enough for him to be recognized by librarians.  Research for this day is done, yet Sam will still be here for several more hours until Dean reminds their father that Sam needs a way back to their motel room.  So Sam peruses the bookshelves, is reminded of the brief mention in one of his classes of a Gandhi, and addresses the catalogue before grabbing several seemingly interesting texts.

                Sam sits at his table where his bag occupies a neighboring seat and the friendly librarians have cleared away the books he was done with.  He digs into his backpack for the notebook he hoards for personal research notes, the one Dean is careful to save a bit of extra money for, the one covered in cramped, fine print, handwritten notes that Sam tries to save room on to takes as many notes as possible.  Sectioning off his last project carefully, Sam opens his first book and begins to read.  He finds the man interesting, someone worthy of notice rather than holy reverence, but Sam’s attention peeks at the descriptions of the man’s fasts.  Finishing off his notes on Gandhi, he returns into the lurking silence of the bookshelves to find more information.  There appear to be two types of fasts, but most noticeably the action appears to be related to religious ideations of different cultures and Sam is quickly fascinated by the prospect.  When Dean does show up, he has to drag Sam away from his books.

                Sam turns his head away violently.  “Sam, god damn it, you’re sick; you need to eat something.”  Dean and Bobby had already had to tie Sam to the bed so that he would stop hurting himself in his sleep.  Not that Sam minded too much; it made sense and ensured he moved less.  Dean’s frowning from where he’s kneeled over him, bowl and soup in hand.  “Sammy common, your body can’t survive without the calories.”  Sam turns his head back to look at Dean directly.  “It’s just tomato soup, there’s not even any chunks in it…” but Sam’s shaking his head weakly.

                “I don’t want it, and more importantly, I don’t _need_ it.  It’s betraying _God_.”

                “God doesn’t want you to die Sammy, common.”  Dean tries to spoon soup into his mouth but Sam turns his head, feels the lukewarm liquid fall across his cheek.  “Damn it Sam!”  The soup is quickly wiped away and Sam can feel himself being dragged back to unconsciousness, until cold air fall upon his collarbone from where’s been almost completely covered in blankets.  Opening his eyes carefully he watches as Dean yanked his arm out from under the covers.  “Well if you’re not going to eat,” Dean growls, disinfecting Sam’s arm quickly and ignoring Sam’s hiss at the cold.  “I hope you don’t mind an intravenous drip, you asshole.”  Dean’s level-minded enough to insert the needle correctly, tape it to Sam’s arm before carefully strapping the limb down.  “Have fun sleeping.”  Sam wants to reach out and apologize, but he’s already falling asleep.

                There are souls screaming in the hallway, screaming in pain and sorrow, and he ignores them because he’s looking for one.  _You came, I knew you would, I’ve been praying for forever,_ and he tells her he’s not what she’s praying for but her voice is stuck on repeat.  He finds the door with trepidation and it opens before his hands.

                Dean watches his brother twitch in his sleep; can’t help but check his vitals every few minutes.  Bobby makes him jump with a hand on the shoulder before handing Dean a beer and taking a drink of his own.  “Your Dad still not picking up?”  Dean just shakes his head, watches his brother as he takes a swig of his own beer.  “Yeah well, John was never much of the check-his-messages type.”  Dean snorts.

                “Yeah, well, he also tends to be busy a lot.  You’d think he’d pick up if Sam was dying though.”  He glances at Bobby, takes another drink.  “My brother’s vessel is really sick Bobby, and I’m worried it might manage to kill him.”

                “You ever think this is maybe his time?”

                “Nah, it doesn’t quite sit right, in my bones, you know?  Besides, ain’t no amount of repenting going to save me if I don’t try to save the kid.”

                “Sometimes I worry you two idjits are crazy.”

                “Common Bobby, of course we aren’t.  You wouldn’t hang out with us this much if we were.”  Dean doesn’t see the spark of worry in the man’s eyes.  “Dad was too hard on Sam when we were younger.  He was always focused on too much on weapons part of hunting:  guns, knives, arrows, even tonfa.  Sam never quite got the hand of it like me and him did.  There was this one day when Sam was maybe 13, 14?  All gawky teenager limbs, you remember how he was, this skinny little beanpole with the mind of an astrophysicist.”  It’s a hypothetical question but Dean waits for Bobby’s nod anyway.  “We happened to get up before him that morning and I’m sitting on the wall; Sam’s at the starting line of that obstacle course.  You know that one with not only rock walls and pools but also simulated fights that I showed you once.  I yell go, hit the stop watch, and that boy is running, none of that gangly, uncoordinated mess you’d expect from kids like him.  He beat the course record, downed the water he had ready for after, and punched me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise.  Apparently Dad saw him; first time I ever really remember the man apologizing.  Do you remember that time you pissed Dad off?”

                “You were around 6 years old; all I taught you to do was play baseball.”

                “Yeah well my Dad didn’t seem to fond of sports.  Did you know I was actually so into it for a while that I wanted him to sign me up for a team?  He wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

                “I didn’t do you a favor, don’t you put that on me boy.”

                “Says the smuggler.”  Dean grins and Bobby glares but they both laughed anyway, and for a while it didn’t matter that Sam was sick.

                There’s a tingle in his skin, like a caress of wing beats in the still silence of a night.  He wonders if it was really wing beats or rather the steps of cautious insects.  There are bells, funeral bells, echoing through the dark and it isn’t until the second dull thud that he realizes he’s being buried alive.

                Lines of pain crisscrossing his body and on instinct he tries to arch, drives himself into the pain instead.  They are wires, straps.  They hold him down as a hook drives through his sternum and a blade peels off his skin.

                He cuts open his finger.  He sees a split second of bone, muscle, skin before blood wells up, bright and sharp.  He watches in fascination as it slides down the surface, paints it with crimson prayer the same as it anoints the steel of his blade.

                The pen is uncapped, a glory even free of leaking ink, and the paper is a clear, bright white.  Each stroke is a magic act, and it tells him a story.  Through the words he hears the choruses of God, of his seraph siblings, and although he reaches out to them, they tell him to return.  Somewhat reluctantly, he turns his back.

                Jealousy is a poisonous viper in his chest.  Its’ venom spreads through his skin, his meat, like water through fabric, traces patterns unseen in to the human eye in an effort to destroy all it touches.  He burns with it, though he has no hate, holds back his fingers from a gun.

                Sam wakes up.  He can feel the layers of sweat and oil and particles of dirt clinging to his skin, clumps of his hair clinging together and slicked to his skull, like a mad octopus that clings to a rock and tries to make itself small.  “Dean,” he calls, but his voice is raspy and weak.  Frowning, he tries to get up but is stopped by something, and upon further investigation he finds he can’t move his arms or legs either.  “Dean!”  The call is a rough, panicked screech now, more so from an absence of presence in the room, of reassurance, than the restraints, but nevertheless it causes him to struggle, to try to bring about that reassuring contact.  His call brings boot steps on stairs, the door opening before Dean’s face appears above him as he struggles valiantly against his bonds, anything to prove through concrete touch that he is no longer dreaming.  “Dean, get me out of them.”  Dean blinks, seems considerate, and Sam’s not sure if this is quite _real_ , not with Dean acting suspicious of him, not with the pensive fear in his brother’s eyes.

                “Sorry Sam, can’t let you out until I know that fever of yours is gone and you aren’t going to pass out and start swinging your arms wildly again.”

                “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Please Dean, common, just… lay your fingers on my head or something.  Please,” and the last word is small and scared and Dean can’t help but give in, reach out a hand to push some hair off of Sam’s face, lean down to press a kiss to his baby brother’s forehead.  

                “Sorry, baby bro, I have to check your temperature first.”  Dean shoves the ear thermometer in unceremoniously and Sam makes a pathetic whining noise at the intrusion, because the feel isn’t _right_ it shouldn’t be there, touches are supposed to be _safe_ , but Dean just holds his head steady, rubs his thumb over Sam’s cheek as they wait for the beep.  Dean makes sure to check the read-out twice.  “Well, looks like your fever broke.”

                “Good, now damn it Dean, I want to take a shower let _me OUT_!”  Dean mutters, but as Sam stops wriggling impatiently the straps come off.  He tries to sit up too quickly and the room starts spinning so he falls back with an irritated huff.  “What happened?”

                “You don’t remember anything?”  Sam shakes his head a bit as Dean gets him sitting.

                “Pieces, enough to be worried about whether I was dreaming again when I woke up but not enough to articulate.”  Dean just looks at him for a minute before helping him drink a glass of water.

                “You got a fever, started going on about saving some people in the old Kansas house; thrashed about pretty badly on me too.”  Dean lays a blanket carefully across Sam’s shoulders.  “So if I make some soup, this time are you going to eat it?”  Sam nods, and Dean leaves, he smiles at himself for the gift God gave him when He gave him Dean, even if he doesn’t like it when Dean insists upon feeding the soup to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have this bad tendency to want all of this back-story everywhere, so I'm going to try to speed things along to the portion of the tale that I actually really care about, which starts around season 4.


	6. A Man Named John Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winchester meets up with his boys but things don't go quite as planned. Some new friends are briefly introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my friend Liz (pumpkinlessidjit on Tumblr) for reading through this for me!

                “I talked to your doctor.”  Dean just glances over, glances away, back to where the TV is playing commercials on shitty pixels on a screen that’s old enough to have lost some of its color.

                “You better kick their asses for me Sam.”

                “Dean-“

                “If it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go.”

                “God doesn’t want you to _die_ Dean.”

                “What if it is, huh?”

                “It’s _not_.  We’d know, Father would let us know, Hell, Father would tell Dad, and Dad would be here.  I mean, Dean, they _told_ me to come back.”

                “What?”  Sam steals the bedside chair, leans forward with his elbows on the bed, his hands fisted together.

                “When I was sick, I _saw_ them, our siblings, and they made me come back.  We’re not done Dean.”

                “Maybe you’re not, but I am.”

                “It’s not fair.”

                “No, it isn’t, but Sam…  Don’t let me die in here.  Murder makes sense because you have someone to blame; murder I understand.  Illness doesn’t have a rhyme, or a reason; disease is mysterious, and hey, I’m all for a little mystery to spice things up but I’m not dying in Creep Hospital Set A.”  Sam doesn’t quite smile, but he checks Dean out at the nurse’s station.

~

                “Well maybe my brother here believes enough for the both of us.”  Sam wants to scream.  Out of the both of them, _Dean_ always had more faith, always had steady faith.  It was _Sam_ who had betrayed God; Dean had never done _anything_ that could warrant this.  Dean was the soldier, the man of the hour with nothing to prove because he already proved it.  If anyone should be punished, it should be Sam.  He had fallen into human filth and disease and sin; _he_ who was unclean down to his very Grace and even as his heart beats he tries to flush it out of his body with good intentions.  _Dean_ was holy glory, the true wrath of God wrapped in human skin, beautiful in his very holiness.  As they visit  the healer, return to the hospital to find that there were technical mistakes and Dean is fine, and as they slaughter the flock of false idols with guns and smiles and blood spatter, Sam thinks his greatest sin might be that loves his brother as much as Father.

~

                Sam sighs in relief watching the light flicker out of the girl’s eyes.  He cracks his hands afterward, looking at her dead eyes and the bruising forming at her neck.  He looks to his left from where he’s still straddling her body, sees their two other helpless victims, and beyond them his brother lazily carving into a fourth, who despite her blood loss seems to still be alive.  He pulls himself over to the next, some blonde girl that bears a passing resemblance to Jessica.  Sam is glad to wrap his hands around her throat.  Even though they’re tied down, instinct takes over and they try to throw him off, mouths opening uselessly for air as their arms and legs attempt to reach for him.  All they manage to do is buck up against his groin, flinching and crying more as they discover his hard dick in his pants.  Sam enjoys that fear, that pain, and the friction’s only an added bonus.  This girl’s lips are open so pretty, mouth stretching wide and nostrils flaring to get air, and he can see her shutting down, but this is his last one (Dean and him split them even) and he wants it to last, so he lets off just enough for her to get a small stream of air.  He’s sitting there, contemplating how to best enjoy the time he has left with this lovely participant with her pretty pink lips and stringy blonde hair when Dean looks up, eyes half-distracted.  “You can take my other one.”

                “What?”

                “Take the other one, I’m not feeling it tonight.”

                “You sure,” but Dean just nods and turns to reflect on the one he’s working on.  (Dean’s kills resemble art, strokes calculated and poetic and it’s only more evident when he’s focused.)  Sam grins down at the girl, with tears leaking out of her eyes, and he snaps her neck.  One quick twist and she’s limp, and he can’t help but smile, quickly, mirthlessly.  Sam licks his lips, studies the unnatural bend of her spine, hovers his hand right above the skin, but doesn’t touch; they don’t touch more than necessary; staring at her blank eyes for a few moments, he moves on to the next, a man, already crying, snot and tears running into the gag on his mouth.  Sam studies him, pathetic worm and sinner removed from God, but he leans forward from where he’s straddling the creature, runs a hand through the man’s pretty hair.

                “Sam what are you doing?”

                “Playing with him,” Sam says idly, twirls a piece in one of his fingers and watches at it falls into the correct position, ignores Dean’s scolding tone.

                “You’ll get us caught.”

                “They’ll find nothing they don’t already have Dean.  They have our fingerprints, our DNA, they’ll just wonder if he’s more special than the others.  Besides, I haven’t gotten to do much in four years, I want to enjoy myself, _play_ a little.”

                “Well, I’m waiting in the car then Hannibal Lecter; see you when you’re done.”  Sam plays with the man’s hair again, contemplative, like his very presence is mysterious in some way.

                “What do you say we talk this out huh?  I take the gag out, you don’t scream, and we have a little chat.”  The man’s nodding frantically and it’s almost a pity that  Sam can’t do much more but kill him, that his death is inevitable and immediate within the eyes of God, but Sam takes the gag off all the same, give the man a chance to work his jaw.  “There, all better now yes?”  He runs his hand through the man’s hair again, feels him shiver.  “Name?”

                “Jefferson.”

                “Well Jefferson, do you know why you’re here?”

                “No sir.”

                “Sir?  Well aren’t you a polite one.  We’re actually about the same age really; I’m 22 and Dean out there is 26.”

                “I’m 28.”  Sam pats the side of the man’s face, resists the urge he has to grind his erection into the man’s thigh; he’ll get off soon enough.

                “See, not too much older then.  You want me to give you a guess?  On why you’re here?”  Jefferson nods again, still frantic but a bit slower, like he believes in chances.  “You’re a _sinner_.  Blackest of the black and God commands that you _die_ Jefferson,” Sam wraps his fingers around the man’s throat, applying some pressure before removing his hands to quickly use his garrote instead.  “I intend to obey His orders, don’t you Jefferson?”  Sam’s breathing heavily the body underneath him in full fight or flight response.  “Do you _repent_ Jefferson?”  The man doesn’t respond, breath and life having been squeezed out of him, and Sam smacks his face, over and over again, because it feels _good_ , because how could he betray the word of God for _four years_ and not be punished as the other sinners are; how very horrible is he, that his sin requires more from others than himself?  Did God know he would return to the fight, return to his faith, return to the New Bible, The Word, The Gift, the very thoughts of God transcribed in John Winchester’s journal and handed down to his sons who in turn describe their own prophecies?  Is that faith in him powerful enough, that it not only cured Dean but absolves him from his own sin?  Sam leaves without looking back.  He barely closes the door.  He’s barely in the vehicle before Dean’s talking.

                “Don’t masturbate in my car.”

                “We have sex in your car.”

                “That’s not the same.”

                “Prude.”  Dean takes in the look at his face and he must see something, because he doesn’t really pester Sam after that.  They stop for gas on the way back to their real motel and Sam rushes to the bathroom, jerks off while leaning against the locked bathroom door, his gasps muffled into his other hand.  He’s cleaned up and ready to leave by the time Dean’s done with gas, having bought some liquor inside as well.  It’s a dull orgasm really, Sam reflects semi-sadly as they drive off.  They park to find their motel room door ajar.  Approaching the door carefully, they push it open, guns drawn, scanning the room for threats.

                “Hello boys.”

                “Dad,” asks Dean, but Sam doesn’t have a face to match that voice or Dean’s lowering gun so he keeps his weapon aloft and his mind focused until the man steps into better light.  Dean shuts the door, flicks the light switch, and already it’s a better situation as they put their guns away.  Dean gives him a handshake and Sam approaches him, because it’s been _so long_ since he’s seen him and so many things were said but it’s his _father_ and despite all the things he should have said, that he needed to say, he just opts for punching him in the face.

                “Prick,” Sam mutters, shaking out his fist as John checks his nose and straightens back up.

                “Sam!”

                “He _disappeared_ Dean!”

                “Dean, it’s alright.  If the worse your brother does is punch me then I’ll consider myself lucky.”  Dad claps him on the shoulder, let’s out one of his weird smiles that seems like his own relief can be a pain.  “You got a drink?”  Sam knows that Dean’s new bottle of Jack Daniel’s is sitting under the seat in the Impala, but he reaches into a cooler and grabs a beer, hands it to John a bit more forcefully then necessary before taking his own to sit on the edge of the bed.  Dean grabs one himself, sits beside his brother as John pulls a chair from the in room table out to sit across from them.  They all take a drink.  Sam doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean as Dean doesn’t take his eyes off John.  “You know what kid, I think you gave me a bruise.”

                “Come on Dad, cut the crap.  Why now?  You’ve obviously kept track of us and knew where we were, knew we were looking for you.  Looking for you for months, for _months_ , and you just ignored all of that, so _why now_?”  Dean doesn’t react to Sam’s questioning of the Final Prophet, their dad or not, and Sam’s suddenly glad there’s a beer in his hand as he chugs half of it.  There’s not that rage Sam remembers from his dad, not the anger he’s come to expect from something as simple as a wrinkled bed, instead his dad just looks tired.

                “It’s a long story Dean, Sam, and I don’t have time to explain it to you entirely right now, but you have to come with me.”  Sam wants to; finding God’s message for him left a profound impact on his faith, but his father seems to be pulling strings on invisible marionettes and Sam’s teeth are on edge like he’s being played.

                “What are you hiding?”

                “Come on Sammy, he’s not hiding anything!  He’s dad!”

                “That’s my _point_ Dean!  He’s always kept things from us, important things, and now he won’t explain anything to us!  You _always_ take his side!”

                “No I don’t Sam!”

                “Why don’t I believe you?!”

                “You know what Sam, why don’t you just-“

                “Boys, enough.”  Sam bites his cheeks, huffs a breath in through his nose, tastes his own blood where his teeth have torn through tissue.  “It’s late, let’s get some rest, and start over in the morning.  Then we can talk.”  John just slips into the other bed, like he’s earned it, and leaves his sons to themselves as he falls asleep seconds after pulling the cover over his self.  Sam flops down moodily on top of the covers and Dean just watches until Sam cracks his hand.

                “Let me see,” he says, kicking off his boots to lie next to his baby brother.  Sam shakes his head but doesn’t fight or protest when Dean takes the hand anyway, looking it over for injuries.  He can’t find anything wrong with it but brotherly instincts won’t leave it alone, so he kisses each of Sam’s knuckles before meeting Sam’s eyes.  “You shouldn’t have punched him.”

                “Yeah, well…”

                “You’re wrong you know,” Dean says in a quieter voice, as if John will hear even though he’s lightly snoring on the other bed, bile rising in his throat because Sam has always been a weak spot that exploits what little kindness his has, intentionally or not.  “About me and Dad…  I don’t always take his side Sammy…  I- I tried to explain to him the Stanford thing, even though I didn’t get it.  I still don’t really, but you explained it to me you know.”  Dean stares at his brother’s hand again, easier to look at then his brother’s face.  “Words are a weapon, so I tried to carve you a path, and I didn’t want you to leave but I knew that there was a way you wouldn’t be cut out completely.  I failed is all.”

                “I left because I wanted,” Sam pauses, looks fearfully over Dean until their father snuffles in his sleep, “to get away from that pain there.  How it kind of pervaded everything…”  Dean just barely nods, feels like he and Sam are teenagers again, whispering in the dark.  “I ended up losing God in the process.  I was a sinner, I _associated_ with sinners and I can’t ever make that up and-“  Sam’s sniveling, hates himself for sniveling, but Dean leans forward, kindness and gentleness in his eyes, the kind of things he only shows Sam, and pecks his baby brother on the lips.

                “You’re not a sinner Sammy, you were just scared.  God knows that, doesn’t He?  He told you to come back.”  Instead of letting his brother cry again, Dean kisses him slow, and anchor to ground them to each other just like always.  “We better get some rest okay.”  Sam nods and they fumble to get under the blanket before falling asleep curled towards each other. 

                The drive is long, taking days, and Dean can’t stop tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and Sam can feel his pulse in his fingertips so he presses them into his skin because it’s easier than finding string or wire to fiddle with, but eventually the pressure on his own skin it’s enough so he plays with his garrote anyway.  He’s always prided himself on using just the wire, no handles, barely fabric to protect his hands, and now he cuts off the blood circulation in his own fingers until their numb before letting blood return, does it for a long time.  Dean pats his leg after a while, a silent agreement of unease, uses his reassuring voice.  “Don’t worry Sammy; I’m sure we’ll stop for a hunt somewhere.  We’ll at least have a hunt when we get there.”

                “Don’t patronize me,” Sam bites, cuts off the circulation in another finger with systematic focus.

                “I’m not patronizing you; I’m jumpy too Mr. Stanford.  I’ve just had more practice in hiding it is all.”  Lunch on the second day turned out to be an affair, with both boys touchy as they were.  Sam’s _impatience_ and need are making him vibrate out of his skeleton and Dean keeps slipping alcohol into his coffee.  John won’t stop staring at them over his water, making Sam even twitchier as he starts playing with a string, and when it comes to order he chokes on the liquid as Sam orders a burger.  Dean knows that Sam just orders junk food when he’s stressed, fills his mug with more liquor as the nurse walks away.  John keeps watching until he can’t take the tension anymore.

                “Alright, out with it.”

                “Out with what,” Sam bites out.

                “What’s with you two?”

                “Is there a job in Rhode Island Dad?”  Sam bites into the words, tears at them like speaking is hunger and the words are food, meat you can’t cut with a knife and have to tear at with incisors.  It comes out with sharp vowels and ragged consonants; he sounds like a predator.  “What’s so important that we don’t touch any sinner for miles?”  Dean just takes another drink, for once doesn’t interrupt one of Dad and Sam’s arguments, because he wants an answer for that too.  John pauses briefly, like he’s weighing how much he can say.

                “Yeah, it’s a job; I found him.”  The boy’s miss their father’s minute twitch at their change in expression.

                “Yellow eyes,” Dean asks, somewhat breathless in shock.  “You found the demon that killed Mom?”

                “Why didn’t you tell us you were hunting the thing, we could have helped!”

                “I wanted to be sure, before I got the two of you involved.  I wanted to keep you safe.”  Sam visibly relaxes some and Dean finally releases his death grip on the mug.  Sam frowns at his burger when it arrives but Dean wordlessly switches him for the salad he ordered and Sam just smiles at his brother, all little sibling glow eyes for thirty seconds.  Dean thinks he misses his little brother who looked at him like he hung the Sun for those thirty seconds; maybe, if he was feeling really sentimental.

                “So what now,” Sam asks around a mouth full of vegetables.  “How are we going to catch it?”

                “I have a plan in place, but we actually have to reach Rhode Island before we can execute it.  I’ll fill you in when we’re closer to the target.”  John’s voice cracks a bit at the end, so he takes a drink of water, throat convulsing as he takes a large gulp, and the boys chock it up to thirst.

                “Well,” Dean shrugs, “we’re gonna have to book it.”

                “We’re going to stop somewhere right?  We can’t put aside the Word simply for revenge.”  Dean nods once and after a pregnant pause John nods once as well.  Sam smiles around a mouthful of lettuce and it is cruel.  They stop somewhere near the Tennessee and Kentucky border, about half way to their destination from their starting point near New Mexico.  It’s a trio of chain smokers and Sam loves the ragged edges in the gasps of this woman as the garrote in his hands tightens around her throat, loves the feel of the wire cutting into his skin.  Sam’s dies before he really wants her too and Sam looks over at Dean where his brother’s is not its’ usual masterpiece as it stops breathing.  They turn to John in synch and Sam realizes with a tilt of his head that their dad’s face is green but John just shakes his head about the third, mutters something about not in the mood and Sam shakes his head at Dean.  He’s relatively satisfied; he just wants to kiss, wants to fuck, wants hot breath and sweat and something in his ass, but instead he sits cross-legged near the third to watch Dean work, each knife stroke ordered and precise, just a slight shaking in his hand to indicate how long it’s been since they’ve last done this.  John leaves quickly when they’re done, hurrying off in the right direction with the truck and the boys clamber into the Impala. 

                They stop on some dirt side road off the highway, kicking off shoes and clothing as quickly as possible as they clamber into the back seat.  Dean doesn’t even care about the sex, or too much about the fact that it’s Sam, and Sam loves his brother nothing more than a sibling but he _needs_ sex after a hunt, even if it’s just his hand, but Dean’s always accommodating to his Sammy.  Sam almost cries when they’re done with prep and Dean’s finally pushing in because it feels so _good_ and Dean is muttering something about how much of a slut he is but Sam can’t care because it feels good, and he’s scratching at Dean’s back for him to hurry, his brother’s hands still covered in blood.  When they’re done Sam is blissed out, completely, been fucked into complete calm and blissed renewal.

                They’re clothed and back on the road, cleaned up from ejaculate and blood.  Sam is relaxed the entire way to Rhode Island.  They arrive, finding a motel with relative ease considering the size of the town, but John avoids them for three whole days.  “There’s something wrong with him,” Sam mutters on the beginning of day three.

                “Like what Sammy?  He’s just Dad.”

                “Dad doesn’t get sick while he watches us punish sinners.”

                “So his face got a little green, he’s been out of practice.”

                “He was out of practice for most of our young lives and he _never_ turned green.”

                “Fine, what are we going to do about it?  There’s no evidence.”  Sam just drops it, though he can tell Dean’s worried too, decides to pray for guidance instead.  He lays everything out carefully and Dean just watches absentmindedly over the newspaper.  It’s a new thing, something Sam himself has added to the Gift. 

                He lays out a rug, a piece of white fabric he found in a Laundromat, and kneels at the wide edge, the thing the width of his shoulders and places a basin of water across from him.  With a towel and the first aid kit on standby, he leans over the bowl, cupping water in his hands to repeatedly cleanse his face, repeating the first invocation:  _Blessed be thy Father and hallow be thy name, reigning over the Earth in Heaven.  You have blessed the Earth with your wisdom and your joy, though we have desecrated your gift.  Honored am I to be one of your chosen followers, to be in your kindness, to be the vessel for your wrath.  Blessed am I to be your archangel, a gift never to be forgotten._ Having completed the first part of the prayer he proceeds to the second, carefully taking a small knife and making shallow cuts in his palms, just enough to bleed weakly.  Accomplishing this task, he continues to wash his face in the same manner, the water now pink from blood and cites a second invocation _.  May we walk the Earth in justice, the calculated rage of God.  The Wicked, true sinners, must be punished by our will.  I will rain Holy Wrath, the Purity of Heaven to bathe the ground, and in my blood is the Holy Force of the Universe that honors my vessel with God’s joy._ With the second part complete, all that’s left is the third and final part of the prayer.  Sam creates a third cut on his thumb, deep but not permanently injurious, enough to have the blood last through the final invocation.  He wipes the blood along his cheekbones, the bridge between his eyes, and the lips, especially the bottom one will saying the third invocation.  _Justice is my blood and my Earthly body.  All of sin will be extinguished, starting with the worst.  I prepare myself daily for war._

                Dean stops him from praying after a third prayer muttering something about “can’t have you passing out of me” and as food and water is forced into him, Sam silently prays for God to help them, glad that a serious prayer such as this only needs to be complete once a month, shedding traitorous and holy blood in the name of God.  Sam makes a mental note not to allow any followers under sixteen years old to ever let that much blood, a more serious note to never let anyone seriously injure themselves.  Dean lets him sleep after that, threatening to wake him up if his health looks sketchy in any way.  Sam falls asleep with a hand touching Dean’s thigh and the sound of his brother breathing.

                John shows up at the motel around midnight, clearly drunk, but he says that he’s found a couple of sinners for them to take care of, so the boys don’t argue, just grab weapons and shoes and jackets and follow their father into the night.  A couple of deities strung out in an alley, heroin clearly affecting their system since they can’t sufficiently run, and despite his inebriated state John Winchester is able to cut them down with only three efficient gun shots, leaving his boys to catch him as he passes out, haul him away in the dark.  Sam thinks it’s odd to be with their father again.  Odd to deal with his drunken snoring and his getting up at exactly 1:30 AM to take a piss and almost tripping over something, and it’s just odd to second guess his every move again because he got used to living without it for so long that it no longer makes sense for these routines to exist outside of the early time in his life, that they simply continued on even though he had separated himself from them.  Sam doesn’t really sleep, though his dad and his brother do, instead he just curls himself under Dean’s arm, buries his face in his chest, decides he’ll use the excuse of always cuddling in his sleep if he’s asked in the morning, but cuddled away in Dean’s arms is easier than seeing his father in the next bed, so he stays exactly where he is.  He eventually does catch a few hours of fitful sleep.

                Their father seems disoriented when he wakes up, but he smiles weekly and drags himself through a morning routine and the boys do what they need to.  Breakfast is quiet, John nursing coffee while Dean shoves his face with pancakes and bacon and Sam works through a crepe.    Sam can taste his own tongue, taste the coffee in the air, and he’s hungry for a hunt, hungry for a _kill_ , hungry for something he hasn’t even quite figured out yet, but instead he works through his food and stares at his hung-over father until he decides to reveal his plan.  He wonders if it’s the same thing with addicts, the taste of nicotine under your tongue, rhythmic inhales and exhales of carcinogens, tapping out ash, putting a cigarette out by running it against your skin…  His thoughts are interrupted by his dad letting out a grunt, rubbing his face before he speaks.  “We’ll go after him today, no more distractions on my part.”  Sam and Dean lean forward eagerly, arms bumping, and John leans forward as well to complete the conspirator whispering circle.  “Yellow Eyes has taken over a psychotherapist and is pretending to run his practice.  I’ve set up an appointment and we’ll catch him in his office.”

                “Why the appointment; why don’t we just go in and gank the motherfucker once and for all,” Dean asks.

                “We won’t put innocent civilians in harm’s way.  As it is, it’s probably smart to only take the bare minimum of weaponry, just in case.”  Sam takes his garrote and a switchblade, Dean picks two small but decently sized blades, and John opts for nothing at all, and again Sam silently prays for strength and guidance but now he also wishes for luck in this endeavor to destroy the being that ripped their lives apart.  Sam hopes they make it painful.  The door is locked behind them and the boys are smiling to themselves when their father tells them to sit.  Sam frowns slightly, but like Dean he obeys, turns his gaze curiously to the man Yellow Eyes is possessing.  He’s white with black hair that’s greying at the edges, lines riddling his face.  A pair of glasses are perched upon his small nose and he breaths through pink lips; he wears a blue button down with a matching tie in a darker shade with black dress pants and shoes.  The jacket of the ensemble is draped over the back of a desk chair but there are enough seats in the room for him to sit comfortably and openly with clients.  Sam thinks he looks simple enough, which is probably the point, so he hates everything about him.

                “So these are your boys,” he says, and the voice is gravelly.

                “Yep.”

                “They look like you.”

                “More like their mom.”

                “Do the two of you know why you’re here?”  Sam gives Dean a puzzled look, let’s his brother be the mouthpiece.

                “We’re here to kill you.”

                “John, what’d you tell them,” the man says, barely panicked if panicked at all.

                “Told them you where that yellow-eyed demon, the one I talked about.”

                “Ah…”

                “Dad what’s going on,” Dean asks and Sam pulls his wire out on an instinct, to have something familiar in muddy waters.  Dean looks equally on edge but he hasn’t drawn a weapon yet, and Sam realizes that a lack of weapons was all part of Dad’s plan.

                “I’m sorry boys, I was wrong.  We’re not on a mission from _God_ , we’re just murdering innocent people.  I was distraught, I was crazy and I thought…  I hallucinated, I drank, I _made it up_ and I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you.”  Dean stands, pulls out a gun (and trust Dean to always bring a gun even when he’s not supposed to), points the weapon at Yellow Eyes.

                “What have you done to him?”

                “N-nothing!  I’m a therapist, I’m just your dad’s therapist.  What he said is completely true, I swear!”

                “I don’t trust you.  Sammy, thoughts?”

                “Yellow Eyes manipulating Dad explains why he’s been acting strange.”  He takes out his switchblade, opens it, studies the sharpness of it as he talks, a subtle threat.  “If he’s truly convinced Dad to turn away from the path of God, then we don’t have a lot of options.”  Dean nods, simply listens to Sam, because Sammy is good with plans and options and road maps and general systematic choices like that were Dean’s only good at control if it’s with a knife in his hand.  “Option one: rehabilitation, retraining and enlightening him to God again.  Option two: torture, finding out exactly what’s happened and what Yellow Eyes knows, potentially ending in option one.  Option three: death.  Which is pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think Dean?”

                “Yeah, I think so Sammy.  I think one might be out of the question-“  Dean flinches slightly when the security alarm goes off, glares at Yellow Eyes.

                “Shoot him in the knee and we’ll come back.”  Dean obeys, bullet going through the therapists leg simple and clean, though painful, especially from this range.

                “Jesus Dean you can’t just-“  Sam interrupts his dad by surging out of his chair, pressing his blade to the man’s throat, suddenly radiating rage.

                “It’s not your turn to speak John.  I’m afraid you must wait your turn.”  Sam turns his head slightly to address Dean.  “Treat Dad as a hostage,” Dean turns his gun so that Sam can back away, pocketing his blade, “and we’re getting out of here.”  Breaking the window is easy after they’ve barricaded the door, and they’re out in seconds, Dean being careful to hide his gun but manhandling John either way.  Dean hands the gun off to Sam, who climbs in the back, Dean driving with John in the passenger seat, gun pointed very clearly at his heart through the back of the seat.  They stop very briefly at the motel to pick up their things and Sam is fairly certain that they leave minutes before the police arrive.  They drive for a long time, eventually finding some abandoned cabin in backwoods bum-fuck nowhere.  Sam thinks he likes the quietness of it after the heavy sound of his heartbeat that’s he’s heard for the past several hours, nothing but that and the rumbled of an engine, his dad’s deep breathing.  They don’t really _torture_ him, though they beat him up severely, and he still swears backwards and sideways that he’s telling the truth, until he starts crying:  “Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right, please stop hitting me, please stop.”  Large tears roll off his face as snot mixes with the blood from his nose.

                Dean comes up behind Sam, flush to his back, and even though the gun is in Sam’s hand they bring it up and sight it together, barrel pointed at the center of the forehead.  "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," they say, and John Winchester sins no more.

~

                Doctor Heir has a cast and crutches but he can still see patients.  The police informed him after a week that they found John Winchester’s body and unfortunately the good doctor had no good information on his murderous sons.  He’s heading back to his office, away from the waiting room, when a little girl runs up to him, probably about 11 or 12 years old.  “Are you a doctor?  Why do you have a cast on your leg?”

                “Well-“ Doctor Heir doesn’t get to finish as a man comes running around the corner, right up to the girl and he assumes the man is her father.

                “Martha, you can’t just go running off like that!  You have to wait for your appointment sweetheart.”

                “Martha  Christophe?  You’re actually my next appointment, you two can follow me.”  He continues along the hallway, as fast as he can, as fast as he dares, sits opposite the two in his office.  “Now what are you here for Martha?”

                “Actually,” she says, leaning forward eagerly.  “My name’s Meg, and Daddy says you’re a heathen.”  He turns a startled look from the girl to the man.

                “You can call me the Devil.”  It’s the last Doctor Heir sees of his office.


	7. Assassins and a Conversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen, Ash, Jo, and Andrew Gallagher start to come into the equation as the boys meet new people and question their purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of flubbed this chapter a bit, I apologize, though it is really dialogue heavy.

                They cremate him, back in the woods just apart from where they shot him, build a pyre and set it alight.  Sam cries for his dad, for his dad’s soul, and cries because in the end the man betrays him.  Dean cries for his dad and because Sammy does.  The go hunting after the fire is nothing but embers; drag themselves to a near deserted gas station, just a patron and the worker.  Sam’s _angry_ , possibly the angriest he’s ever been, and he’s so upset, so furious, that he can’t even strangle the woman properly so instead he punches her, over and over and over again until he face is denting in and there’s blood all over his hands and he no longer feels exactly like he’s eating himself alive.  Dean’s hands are too shaky to hold a knife, still in shock, still upset, still betrayed, so he just bashes the cashiers head into the counter over and over again until there’s enough blood to prove he’s dead.  They empty the cash register drawer and steal as much liquor as they can fit in their hands.  They clean themselves and burn those clothes like they burned their father, lighter fluid and a match.  They get drunk.  The next morning is horrible hangovers: Dean remaining curled up in his blankets away from the sun as Sam pukes violently into a motel toilet.  They’re not even sure where they are.  Dean turns on the news eventually, for something to do, and they find that that _doctor_ was missing.  “You think we’ll find him?”

                “If Yellow-Eyes wants to be found.  You think someone else got to him?”

                “We can’t be the only ones with a grudge Dean, but he’s probably left that doctor already anyway.  We’ll find him again, and that time we’ll kill him.”  They leave soon as they can stand without wavering because someone is going to find their dad’s body eventually and it’s for the best that they are states away in case the feds put the pieces together.  They’re cognizant enough not to drink while they’re driving.  They find a bar in (God where is this, Sam doesn’t even know, the screaming in his head is [ _was_ ] drowning out the street signs) some state, and it’s open despite it being the middle of the day.  (Has it been days since they’ve left Rhode Island?  They both remember stopping to sleep if not actually sleeping and it’s blending together, stress and grief making them toxic.)  However the parking lot of this bar- The Roadhouse –is empty, the bar even emptier and their senses go on high alert, hands hovering over weapons.

                “We’re closed,” calls a voice from the back, a disgruntled female voice.

                “Well you should change your sign,” Dean says.

                “Local folk can tell when we’re closed, so you’re not local.  Now come back later, when we’re open.”  She’s an older woman, dirty blonde hair, and as she glances out the window she draws a gun at Sam.  “What have you done to John Winchester?”  Sam has his own gun pulled and Dean has a throwing knife balanced in his fingers.  Sam still feels angry, but in a hollowed out way, and if this woman knew they’re father it could have been in relation to God or in relationship to his heresy.

                “Depends on how you know him,” Dean replies smoothly, but he flinches when a gun cocks behind his head.  Sam steals a look; a young girl with pretty blonde hair who obviously knows how to hold a weapon, judging from her hold on the shotgun and her stance.  He looks back at the older woman, keeps his Taurus PT92 steady despite the shaking he feels in his limbs.

                “I could ask the same as you but I don’t think either of you are a good shot.”  Sam turns his barrel slightly to the left and the bullet just misses her and ends up in the woodwork.

                “John taught us how to shoot,” he says without a flinch, barely a waver in his posture, and she just blinks.  He smirks just slightly, just enough to register, before it’s gone just as quickly.

                “John doesn’t teach many how to shoot boys, so why don’t you tell us what you’re about and maybe we can avoid bloodshed.”  Dean ducks the gun at his head, aims his knife for the wrist only to have it blocked.  His knife ends up at the blonde girl’s throat and her shotgun at his chin.

                “Just tell ‘em something Sammy.”

                “Not until they tell us something first Dean.”

                “Dean?  Sam?”  She lowers her gun, gives a smile.  “You’re John’s boys then.   Well I haven’t seen you since you were below my knee.  I’m Ellen, and this is my daughter, Jo.  Sit down, let’s have a drink.”  Jo removes her gun from Dean and he removes his knife.  Sam waits until all weapons are lowered before he holsters his gun.  He doesn’t trust them, though Sam doesn’t trust many people, which might be the reason he’s generally in charge.  They all have a beer but the boys don’t drink until the ladies do.

                “So how do you know our dad?”

                “He learned of our operation, wanted some good combat training, and we’ve helped him find a person or two.”  Ellen just shrugs, a roll of her shoulders that seems easy and angry at the same time.

                “Operation?”  Sam licks his lips, tastes the stale air and weighs every word said.

                “Well, the police would label you two as serial killers.  They’d label the three of us as assassins and spies.”

                “Three of us?”

                “Ash,” Ellen calls, and there’s a racket from the pool table where a man is waking up, mullet and all.

                “What?”

                “We have guests.”  Ash looks at the two for them before shrugging.

                “Yeah, the two guys blamed for the St. Louis thing.  I Mean, they did that job but the police are rightly accusing them of it.  Are we working with them now?”  Ellen gives them a heavy look, solid and calculating, weighing their risk versus their reputation.

                “Maybe…”

                “Well tell me so I work them into plans then.  We have a job tomorrow night anyway.”

                “Anything good,” Sam calls.

                “Something involving clowns.”  Dean laughs as Sam’s face pales.

                “So where’s your dad,” asks Jo, the blonde girl full of confidence and pride under a surface of nonchalance.

                “Dead,” Dean responds, barely hesitates, and his shrug is guarded as he takes a large drink of his beer.

                “How?”

                “He was a traitor,” Sam says quality studies the grains in the wood and wonders how they’ve gotten here.  Discussing a dead father with assassins, the feeling that something has irrevocably changed and he can do nothing to stop it; just like the shaking in his arms.  “He was executed like a traitor, and in all honesty will most likely be remembered as one.”  He, too, takes a long drink.  There’s silence for several moments except for the sounds of Ash still waking, until Ellen breaks the lull in conversation.

                “How did he die, exactly?”  Sam looks her straight in the eye, doesn’t flinch, because he did what was necessary, what was needed, and he will not regret an act of God.

                “I shot him in the head.”  Jo looks scandalized and Ellen and Ash seem shocked, but Dean briefly runs his fingers along Sam’s thigh, a comfort.  They spend the rest of their visit in small talk; promise to call now that Ash is helping them find Azazel.

                They pick it up when there’s one too many corpses with gunshot wounds reported in one small town.  Murderers, no matter their motivation, are sinners and sinners are to be punished.  Sam is sitting in the car as Dean drives, speculating, when he turns off the radio.  “Dude, what’s wrong,” asks Dean.

                “Are we sinners Dean?”

                “Of course not; what are you, nuts?  Come on Sammy.”

                “But…we kill people, just like this guy is doing, so that makes us murders right?  Even if we do it for God…”

                “Sinning’s the only way to defeat sinners though, and as soldiers we’re exempt from punishment.  Dad wrote it.”

                “Yeah, well, Dad thought he was hallucinating.  That _we_ were hallucinating.”

                “Well we’re not, okay.  Sin found Dad and corrupted him, there’s nothing we could have done.  We’re only exempt because we’re the soldiers anyway, the followers must remain righteous without us.”

                “That seems hypocritical.”

                “You know what, shut it.  If you’re so keen we’re nuts why don’t you go back to Stanford?  Hell, why don’t you do what Dad did and betray me too huh?”  Dean turns back on the radio.  So Sam fiddles with his fingers, his fingernails, wonders at the intent of the Father and prays for guidance.  He feels like he’s doing that often lately.  The towns quiet, scared most likely, but the local motel gives them a room, seems happy for the business.  “We’ll have to watch out for hellhounds.  They’ll be crawling all over this case.”  Sam nods and Dean eyes him with a sense of trepidation.  “Look, okay, I’m sorry about earlier alright I’m just…”

                “I get it Dean,” and Sam sounds tired and sad, but he does understand.  That his brother is hurting, that he’s just as scared about the idea as he is, and Sam knows that Dean lashes out when he’s angry, that he was the nearest and clearest target.  “I’m scared too.”

                “Right, well…how are we going to hunt this bastard down?”  Sam just shrugs.

                “Track the kills and get the files.  Same way the feds are going to track him.”

                “Well can we eat before we steal from the police?”  Sam laughs.  There’s a bar a couple of blocks down the way so they walk, Dean being concerned for his precious car, especially since he rebuilt it after an accident a while back.  It’s a respectable bar, big enough for the small town, and they take a seat, wait for the pretty blonde waitress to come and take their order.  The doors swing open and there’s an enthusiastic, familiar holler of “Andy”.

                “Regular,” Sam mutters, looks up to assess the visitor.  He’s an average height male with brown hair, wears a jacket and a sweatshirt over a t-shirt and jeans.  He’s holding his sleeves, like he’s perpetually cold or nervous.  This Andy starts talking with another patron, discussing with added conversation specific hand gestures.  Something about him hits Sam wrong but he ignores it.  They’re here for a killer, and a killer only, not some dorky guy with connections that gives Sam a bad feeling down to his toes.  He takes a bit of salad, looks at Dean instead.  “It can’t be anyone obvious; they’d have already attracted too much attention.”

                “Doesn’t mean the obvious ones won’t have a guess,” Dean mutters around a bite of burger, making Sam pull a face.  “We’ll just have to play some of cards dirty to get to the guy first.”

                They get away with the files without raising any alarms, barely a blip on the proverbial radar, and go over them in the motel.  “Man, this guy sure likes to play, don’t he?”

                “There’s not sign of forced entry…”

                “Like a friend, an acquaintance maybe.”

                “A Regular?”

                “Wha- no, you really think that happy dude at the bar had something to do with it?”

                “He rubbed me the wrong way.”

                “Sammy, this sounds like a joke.”

                “I’m not joking.”

                “I know which is why it’s almost funny.”  Sam pulls a face.  “We’ll check him out alright?  I’m just not sure he’s the type.

                “I’ll bet you five bucks.”

                “Really?”  Sam nods.  “Five bucks it is then.”  The guy’s house is the backwoods, run down, slightly shady looking deal complete with washed out lawn gnomes that stared at you as you walked up.  Breaking in takes no time at all, the lock old and simply; the place is as run down as the outside, moldy chairs, broken tables, floors covered in dirt.  There’s jewelry hanging from the ceiling: necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings.  Dean hands Dam five dollars.  “Dude, this guy is a whack-job,” Dean mutters, swatting at a necklace with a hand.

                “And we’re not?”

                “ _We_ at least have purpose.  We do the work of God.”

                “’Our sins are absolved in the eyes of the Father’, I know.  I have read Dad’s prophecies.”

                “Seems like you haven’t some days.”

                “What does that mean?”

                “It means you’re going out of the way to make us evil!  We’re not killers Sam!  We do our jobs!”

                “Well we sure seem to enjoy them!”

                “Is that a crime?!”

                “If it makes us sinners, _yes_.”  They fall silent for a moment.  “So how do we draw this guy out?”

                “Kill a couple of his town’s people?”

                “It’d make him angry enough, going by the trophies.”

                “Let’s do it then.”  It’s some happy looking teenage girl almost out of high school.  They decide to use Dean’s work since it’s a bit more theatrical and Dean carves and paints her into a masterpiece.  Sam is almost tempted to have him carve his name.  Their motel room is a welcome sight afterwards, the comfort of their own things.  She wasn’t a singer, just a means to an end, and it takes a toll on them both.  The surprise comes when there’s a knock on the door followed by the yell of “police” and there’s a mutual realization that they’ve been had.  The pull guns and when the fuzz comes in they don’t hesitate to fire at the weak spots around potential armor.

                “Go,” says Sam.

                “What?”

                “Go!  Grab our stuff, hop in the Impala and go lay low, I’ll hold them off for a while.  When they take me I’ll give them Andy Gallagher.”

                “Are you nuts?”

                “It’s been suggested.”  Sam lets out a small smile.  “Go!”  So Dean does, gets away in time, and Sam manages to hold them off until they find a way into the bathroom window, then he surrenders.  The cops and local militia hate him; hate him even more when his name comes up in the national database as a suspect in other cases.  Sam just sits easy as you pleas, twiddles his thumbs to pass the time.

                “Mr. Winchester…”

                “Please, call me Sam.”

                “I’m Sheriff Andrews.  Why have you been killing all of my people?”

                “I’ve only been here a _day_ officer.  I’ve only killed cops and that pretty little girl.  A monster is killing the rest of your folk.”

                “Oh really?”

                “I believe he set us up too, which means you might not find anything unless you act fast.”

                “Yeah, and who would that be?”

                “Andrew Gallagher.”

                “Andy?  Andy’s harmless!”

                “Or that’s what he wants you to think.  He fits the age range, is charismatic and has a trickster personality.  He fits your profile.”

                “We don’t have a profile.”

                “Well you should, because he won’t stop.”  Silence reigns over the room.  “Believe me or not, I can’t give you my brother and other than the murders in your jurisdiction I’m not confessing to anything, but I’m giving you your serial killer.  Take it.”  The Sheriff leaves but Sam can hear the other officers scrambling about on his orders.  With barely a grimace he breaks his thumb, slips out of a cuff and grabs the bobby pin on the tag of his shirt, picks the rest of the locks.  It’s easier than it should be to slip out of the police station (windowed bathrooms are fantastic) and find Dean.  It’s a code system; using particular aliases in the fifth motel in the address book.  (Dean would joke that you take a left at the second speakeasy until you see the guiding light but usually he’s somewhat drunk in these instances.)  Dean lets out a heavy sigh when he opens the door, mostly in relief, partially in exasperation.

                “Let me see the thumb.”  They splint it and Sam takes a swig of whatever liquor Dean has open, offers to drive.  They drive all day, crash in some wayside motel, Sam drooling into the pillows almost as soon as they get the doors open.  They sleep long and deep.  When they wake up, Sam already has a knife in his hand on instinct, spins up and out of bed to face the extra presence in the room.

                “Hi,” says Andrew Gallagher, sitting as calmly as you please.  “Nice to meet you, I’m Andy.”

                “This is a surprise,” mutters Dean, still sleep ragged.

                “Well you set me up; it’s not too much of a surprise now is it.”

                “Not setting you up if you killed those people, now, is it Andy?”

                “Turning me in then.”

                “That was me actually,” Sam says.

                “Nevertheless, it seems a joint venture.  They’ll have enough to arrest me, you told them too fast.”

                “It’s a talent.”

                “We can save you,” Dean says, getting a sharp look from Sam.

                “What?”

                “You convert; convert to the true word of God and we’ll help you avoid the police.”

                “Dean!”

                “Everyone deserves saving Sam, us and him.”  Andy seems to weigh it and Sam wonders if Dean’s right, if they can really be saved.

                “Give me the overview.”  They smuggle him out of the state, send him off with as much information on God as they can manage and point him towards Ash.  They sit on the Impala, nurse a celebratory beer, and wonder if they’ve done the right thing.


	8. God Bless Baltimore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No Exit" and "The Usual Suspects" rewrite.
> 
> Jo briefly joins the boys for a hunt. Sam and Dean get captured in Baltimore but Sam manages to escape and does his best to get his brother back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I'm sorry this took so god damn long, school is kicking my ass. I also apologize for how freaking long this is, but I hope the length, in part, makes up for the extremely long accidental hiatus.
> 
> For anyone who doesn't mind minor spoilers (or can blacklist #spoilers), there is an "official" blog for this thing now. It mostly has things that remind me of the universe, but I'm willing to answer questions in and out of character. The Tumblr url is walkingarchangels. <3

                Jo’s good at what she does.  They know this.  They’ve seen copies of the stat sheets Ash keeps.  They know she can stand in front of man, slit his throat from ear to ear, and not get a drop of blood on her.  So when she wants to join a hunt, who are they to argue.  Dean’s the most surprised of the two but Sam’s the most suspicious.  “Come on, I’m just sight-seeing.  I want to see how the other side rolls.”

                “That’s nice and all, but your mother is going to come down on us viciously for this.  Duty can’t be suspended for your _fun_.”

                “Of course Sam’s the one with the stick up his ass.  How do you feel Dean?”  Jo’s leaning against the countertop of the apartment they’re renting out, arms resting on the granite, with a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips.  Sam’s at the table in the middle of the room, coiling and recoiling his garrote as he watches his fingers go purple.  Dean’s sprawled on the couch, throwing some stress ball up in the air only to catch it, and he sighs.

                “Come on Sam; just let the girl live a little huh?  We’ll deal with Ellen if it comes to that.”  Sam huffs, but he doesn’t speak out against it, even as Jo smiles and walks over to the plans lying on the table.

                “So, what’s the job boys?”  Sam frowns again, shoving his garrote away from him as he picks up a pen, points to their papers.  There are documents and maps scattered about the surface and Sam absentmindedly points to one of the reports, waits until Jo fishes it out of the pile before he bothers to explain it.

                “A ghost.  They deal in crack mostly- whether dealing or using we’re not sure yet- but this guy dabbles, mostly in kidnapping and murder.  He’s a possible rapist, making him a zombie as well.  His type seems to be petite blondes.”  He twirls the pen, staring into the middle distance as he thinks, trying to stick the pieces together.

                “You’re shitting with me,” says Jo, staring at him as she lets the report fall to the table.  She looks at Dean.  “He’s shitting with me right?”

                “Sweetheart, for once he isn’t shitting you.  Besides, you know I’m the fun one.”  Dean laughs without even having to look at Sam’s scandalized expression.  He catches the ball before he sits up, shoots Jo a cocky grin that has Sam scowling harder.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that fact had anything to do with his not-arguments earlier.  Always making a plan aren’t you Sammy?”

                “Shut up, I’m thinking.”  Dean makes an encompassing gesture to the whole of his brother, makes Jo snigger as she picks up a knife to twirl between her hands. 

Sam figures out the guy eventually, strings the pieces together after Jo gets kidnapped.  Their plan to get her back turns out sloppy and they almost get themselves caught, but they all end up relatively unharmed.  They stumble into the apartment, just on the edge of exhausted.  Jo is having trouble standing due to a sprained ankle and Dean’s just tired.  Sam’s high off it, high off the way they strung the guy up, blood draining to the guy’s head, blood flowing out of the knife wounds that they carved into him, and the way the guy tried to beg so pretty around the gag in his mouth for Sam to _stop_. 

With a grunt, Dean picks Jo up to set her on the counter, somewhere for him to look at her ankle better.  He groans as he goes to grab a chair and a bottle of scotch.  Sam’s in Jo’s space as soon as Dean shuffles off, hands on the counter around her hips, leaning forward to bring his nose to her neck, breathing in hard.  “Uh… Sam?  Personal space?”

                “Can’t you feel it though,” he breathes out on her neck, not moving away, shifting his hands on the counter to better hold his weight.  “The euphoria along your nerves, your veins, and the way it dips in your stomach?”  He kisses her pulse point.  “Don’t you just want to-“

                “Leave the girl alone,” Dean says, hobbling in and beating Sam off with the chair in his right hand before he sticks it in front of Jo.  He hands her the bottle of scotch as Sam drapes himself across his brother’s back.

                “But Dean,” Sam whines, reaching a hand under Dean’s shirt.

                “Get off.”  Dean manages to peel Sam off him, turn him and point him toward the bathroom.  “Go rub it out in the shower.”  Sam pouts briefly before he heads off, stripping as he goes.  He’s naked before he even reaches the door.  “Fucking horny bastard,” Dean mutters as he turns further into the apartment, glancing at Jo as he does.  He doesn’t mention the fact that she’s already drinking.

                “What’s wrong with him?”  Dean looks up from where he’s grabbing the first aid kit and he sighs as he comes over, sets the kit on the ground as he sits.  Jo keeps drinking and staring at the closed bathroom door.  Jo hisses as Dean touches her ankle, but Dean stays focused, pulls off her shoe and sock so that he can bind it.

                “He gets really horny after hunts.  I make him masturbate in the shower most of the time.”

                “Most of the time?”

                “Hey, baby bro isn’t the only one with urges.  Besides, it’s just sex and angels have sex with each other all the time.”  Jo chooses not to say anything at all.  In the morning she asks them to take her home. 

They’ve barely parked, gravel spinning off the tires when Ellen is out of the door cocking a shotgun.  Ash and Andy come running out behind her but they wipe out in the gravel, Ash falling on top of the reformed serial killer.  Dean turns the ignition off, opens up the door to the Impala with and exits with his hands raised.  “Ellen, jesus-“

                “Jo, get out of the car.”  The youngest Harvelle opens the Impala door at the same time Sam does, both of them raising their hands to their heads.  Jo just shrugs at Dean as she makes her way to her mother.  “Now, you two boys are going to get back into your car and you’re not going to talk to my daughter ever again, you understand me?”

                “Ellen, she asked to come,” Sam tries to argue.

                “I asked you to get in the car Sam Winchester.”  Dean steps away from the car even though Ellen’s shotgun follows him.

                “What’s the sudden problem Ellen?”  Ash and Andy stand up, making their way over, even though they stay away from Ellen’s line of sight.

                “You almost got my daughter killed.”

                “Your daughter volunteered to help.”

                “Mom, come on,” Jo says, places a hand on her mother’s arm.  Ellen glances at her but returns her gaze back to looking at the Winchesters down the barrel of her gun.  “They didn’t do anything, what brought this on?”

                “Their father killed yours.”  Jo moves her hand away.

                “Yeah, and we killed our dad, so I’d say were even.”  Dean leans against the Impalas hood.

                “Get in the _car_ Winchesters.”

                “Why,” Sam asks, stepping forward, and he keeps walking forward until the barrel of Ellen’s gun is digging into his chest.  “Killing us won’t bring your husband back.  It won’t bring our dad back.  It won’t make Andy any less of a killer.  No offense.”

                “None taken,” Andy says with an aborted hand movement.

                “So go ahead.  If you want us dead so much, _shoot me_.”

                “Not a good idea Sammy,” Dean says, starting forward, only stopping at Ash’s warning glance.

                “Okay Ellen,” Ash starts, arms outstretched and hands held open.  “Those boys ever tell you _why_ they shot their father?”  Sam’s already glaring holes into Ash’s skull and Dean’s getting a put-upon expression.

                “No,” Ellen ventures cautiously as Dean grunts.

                “I told you that in confidence.”  Ash just shrugs briefly.

                “Sure, part of it was a twisted sense of justice sure, but John shot William because he was just downright hallucinating or at least having a bad trip.”  Ash pauses again, makes sure that everyone is listening.  “Sam and Dean shot John because he wanted them to see a therapist and turn themselves into the police.”

                “He did _what_?”  She sounds more scandalized then Sam expected, and judging from Jo and Andy’s expressions they didn’t have any idea either.

                “We told you, _I_ told you,” Sam elaborates, shoving away from her with a scowl.  “John Winchester is a traitor, and even more than that, he’s a _coward_.  He could no longer comprehend God; he could no longer serve the will of God.  He is a sinner.  He has been _cast out_.”  Sam grits his teeth.  “Don’t think for a second that we do not regret his betrayal.  We came to hate the very things he wanted to represent, in the end.”  The entire place is silent for a moment.  Dean lowers his hands and gets back in the car.  Ellen slowly lowers her gun slowly and Jo moves over to Ash and Andy.  The two great her as they link hands, helping to usher her inside.  Ellen stops just before she goes inside, looks back at Sam.

                “Your father was an asshole.”

                “Your husband was doing his job.”  It’s the closest either of them gets to ever apologizing, and it’s the closest they ever need to get.

* * *

                It’s Dean’s turn when they get caught, because Sam is getting bored and wants nothing better then to watch his brother carve people into flowers.  So Dean picks a girl and Sam helps him catch her, and Sam sits to the side as Dean wields his knives like paintbrushes.  The _problem_ is that Dean gets caught three people in.  Sam manages to get back to the motel and get thoroughly pissed before they catch him too.

                A woman detective comes in, looks him over as she closes the door.  “Here,” she says, placing a cup of coffee on the table.  She’s almost a pretty blonde, but Sam thinks she’s getting close to retirement.  “I’m Detective Ballard.”  Sam folds his arms as she taps her fingers along her manila envelope.

                “Well I’m guessing your good cop,” Sam quips.  “So where’s bad cop?”

                “He’s with your brother.”

                “Is he?  Why?”  Sam hates hellhounds more than he can say, and he’s finding this particular one to be extra annoying.

                “Because you brother is being held on suspicion of murder.”

                “Murder?!”

                “You sound genuinely surprised.  Or are you just that good of an actor?”  Sam knows that he’s even a better actor than she thinks; he’s had plenty of practice.  She doesn’t need to know that Sam taught Dean most of what he knows about pretending.  Dean had been a shit actor until Sam came along.  She doesn’t need to know exactly how disgusting Sam finds her or the things he would do to her given a proper chance.

                “You can’t keep us here.”

                “Actually, I can for up to forty-eight hours, but you would know that, being pre-law.”  Sam can’t help but fidget.  “That’s right Sam, I know all about you.”  She flips her manila folder open somewhat dramatically and Sam rolls his eyes.  She starts to read.  “Sam Winchester, 23 years old, mom died when you were a baby.  Father was missing for years, no definable address except P.O. boxes in several states and school enrollment forms.  Then there’s Dean.  Big brother Dean.  He’s gotten into all kinds of trouble.  He has a juvenile record for breaking and entering as well as theft, not to mention everything he’s done or suspected of doing since he turned eighteen.  The country hardly knew you existed until you sent in college applications with nearly perfect grades.  Then a year ago, at Stanford, there was a fire at your apartment.  There were two causalities.  One of them was your girlfriend, Jessica.  And then you dropped of the grid.”

                “I needed some time off,” Sam starts.  He doesn’t have to fake the indignation.  Who is she to question them, question The Word of God?  The innocence is what’s difficult to fake.  “To deal, after what happened.  So I’m on a road trip with my brother.”

                “And you what Sam, decided to kidnap, torture, and kill some poor girl just for kicks?”

                “No!” 

                “We have possible hits on both you and you’re brother, what do you think we’re going to find when we start digging deeper into your lives?”  She sets the folder in the table as she leans against it, palms flat on the metal.

                “Tell me when you find out.”  Sam pulls out the chair, takes a seat.  “May I?”  He gestures vaguely to the coffee but doesn’t take an answer before he drinks.

                “So tell me what happened.”  Sam starts in on some bullshit story about they knew the newest girl, how they came to visit, and about how tonight Dean went to stop by and found her there.  Sam doesn’t talk about how pretty she was cut open, but he wants to.  He wants to see the look on the detective’s face.  “I need you to tell me the truth if I’m going to help you Sam.”

                “That is the truth.”  She scowls as she stalks off, leaving the folder in her haste.  Sam allows himself the briefest of smirks behind his coffee.

* * *

                Dean’s starting to hate this guy so much that he wants to cut out his tongue out and make him watch his partner eat it.  Detective I-love-to-hear-myself-talk-around-the-stick-up-my-ass (or Detective Sheridan or whatever) was still going on and on about ‘finding Dean at the crime scene’ and ‘giving him the death penalty’.  Dean, for his part, is doing his best not to mock him by making hand puppets.  The only slight relief from this monotonous boredom was his lawyer coming in to try to get him to talk.  Dean would rather cut out his own kidney then confess.  He’s even considering it.

                But he knows that Sam’s trapped somewhere in this pit of hellhounds and he’s getting Sammy out.  His lawyer bursts in when they’re setting up the camera.  Dude cop is grinning.  “Good news, your boy decided to confess.”

                “Mr. Winchester, I would highly advise against that.”  Dean just shrugs, eyebrow cocked as if to ask him what in the hell he’s going to about it.  Dude cop is practically glowing.  The techs advise him to look directly into the camera.

                “My name is Dean Winchester.”  Simple, to the point, what they want, but he needs to take enough times to give Sam some unsupervised free time.  “I’m an Aquarius.  I like beaches and pillow forts.  If I can say so myself, I’m kind of hot, and I rock the bad-boy-but-somewhat-dependable vibe well enough to get women to sleep with me, which is totally a side affect.  I’ve actually got a few guys to fuck me to, although I wouldn’t necessarily qualify myself as bisexual because even though I like both genders, there’s a few others besides that binary and I kind of just like hot people-“

                “The _confession_ Winchester,” says the dude cop.  Dean smiles at him cheekily, just to get him riled up.  The woman cop at least seems to be so much calmer.

                “That was very relevant, I don’t know what your problem is-“

                “ _The confession.”_

                “All right, all right,” Dean soothes.  They’re such disgusting dirty things, but they’re fun to play with, fun to rile up, and he likes seeing what they do if he pushes just enough buttons.  Seeing what sinners do is something that has always fascinated Dean, ever since Dad came back to the motel with a shiner when he was little and he hadn’t been able to sleep with Sam’s crying.  His dad had come over to him, stumbling as he went, and he had told Dean the story in the dark.  The story about how demons had given him the black eye, and because he had God on his side, he had won.  Dean had hung on every word and he’s known ever since then that there were two important things in his life: God and Sam.

                “So a mummy walks into a bar-“

                “Winchester, you asked to confess.”  Its lady cop this time and Dean can’t help but realize that he’s underestimating her.

                “Alright, I confess.”  Dean holds his hands up in surrender.  “I didn’t murder anyone.  Happy?”  He gives a cheeky smile.

                “You bastard.”  Dude cop loses his shit and Dean only watches with amusement as the guy picks him up by the shirt and drives him into the wall.  The anger is so _predictable._ “You’re just playing with us, wasting our time-“

                “ _Pete!_ ”  Dean’s eyebrow only raises a bit at lady cops exclamation but dude cop backs off, so he knows the woman has the man wrapped around her finger.  _Good for her_ , Dean thinks.  _I hope the sex is good_.

                “Chain him back to the table.”  One of the younger officers come over to shove Dean against the wall, forcibly moving him back to the table afterwards.  Dean simply rolls his shoulders when it’s done, stares his interrogators down until the commotion outside forces them to leave, and then Dean waits.  When they come back Detective Sheridan is pissed and his partner looks like she could slap him in the face.

                “What’s the matter officers, are you missing something?”

* * *

                Ballard is fairly certain that this is one of the most intense days at work she’s had as a homicide detective.  They caught a criminal, _two_ criminals, even if most of it was simpler crimes: the breaking and entering, theft, grave desecration…  She’s still not sure what that last one has to do with the two boys, but at least one of them seems to be a serial killer, for that much she is certain.  Not that they found the murder weapon on either of them.  But Dean, she knows that they caught Dean at the scene of a murder and there’s that suspicious thing in St. Louis…  Ballard sighs.  Dean won’t confess and they have no idea where Sam went. She’s not sure how they’re going to pull this off.  It’s night time now though, and she’s officially off duty because her chief gave them very clear instructions to ‘actually get some fucking sleep if you plan on catching or convicting either of these fucking bastards’.  She steps into her car, lays her purse in the passenger seat, and closes the door as she put her keys in the ignition.  That’s when she hears the click of a gun safety.  _Shit_.

                “You know detective, I thought you were trained to check your vehicle when criminals escape from your custody.  Luckily for me, you’re growing lax in your old age.”  Ballard takes a deep breath.  She can handle this.  “Now, we have some things we need to do.  Start your car and head out of the parking lot.  Take a right.”

                “Have you been busy Sam?”  Something.  Anything to distract him from his supposed mission.  She needs to find a way out of here.  She feels the cool metal of the gun briefly touch her forehead.

                “I said:  start your car, and head out of the parking lot.”  Ballard starts her car.  Sam only takes the time to give her directions after that, and when he finally tells her to stop the car they’re in some quiet residential district that she can’t recognize in the low light.  She waits, her breathing a bit too short and quick, and she can’t hear anything, not his breathing or the whispers of the fabric of his clothes.  _Maybe he’s gone_ , she tells herself.  _Maybe he left and you just didn’t hear him open the door._   It’s only when she feels the needle plunge into her neck and she jerks a hand backwards to find his hand that she realizes how terribly, horribly optimistic she’s being.

                Ballard wakes up to a fervent lightness in her head that she has trouble understanding.  Everything hurts to think about at first, like she has trouble concentrating, but it comes back to her in pieces, and it’s only when she remembers the car ride that she bothers to open her eyes.  She has no idea where she is; even ignoring the blurriness at the edges of her eyes, she knows that she’s in something industrial.  A warehouse?  A storage unit?  A shipping container?  She can’t guess, but it’s featureless and she’s sure that’s exactly the point.  She lolls her head to the side to resting her cheek on her shoulder as she looks down.  Her wrists are bond to the chair with zip ties and her left arm is turned at such an angle that her inner elbow is exposed.  She feels… good, euphoric even.  It takes her a while to process that she should be running.  Why should run when everything feels this good?  Ballard is busy trying to shuffle her feet into submission when she hears a clang.  She doesn’t have the energy to move her head.

                “Oh good, you’re awake finally,” Sam says as he moves into her line of site.  He sets something down and pats her cheek before he tilts her head back up.  “Wakey-wakey detective.  You fainted on me, and I have to admit I was a bit surprised.  For a while there I was afraid I had killed you, but here you are, nice and safe.  Well,” Sam seems to muse with a smile, “relatively safe.”  Ballard watches him as he moves around in front of her, setting things out on a table she must have forgotten about.  “Feels good doesn’t it,” Sam asks her.  He continues on before Ballard can manage an answer.  “It’s street heroin, but don’t worry, I started you off on a small dose.  It’s just enough to keep you high, but if we’re here too long I might have to up it.  We don’t want you to die of overdose, but we don’t want you to lose that nice float-y feeling now do we?”

                He turns back around just as Ballard decides to rest her head on her shoulder again.  “Now, now, don’t get too sleepy detective.  Once it wears off we get to have some _real_ fun.” 

Sam’s grin looks excited and Ballard lets a scared whimper, which he ignores.  Still high, head on her own shoulder, she watches him move about the table, the one she can’t see the top of clear enough to know what’s on it.  She’s surprised that he’s not shaking as he carefully organizes his things, hands lingering over some more than others, a considering frown pressed onto his face.  “Sam,” she says and it doesn’t sound like herself, a bit too breathy.  “You don’t have to do this.”  Sam laughs.

“That’s the clichéd line you’re going for?  Alright then.”  Sam drops his voice low, mocking.  “Yes.  I do.”  Ballard pulls her head up off of her shoulder, whether an attempt to ward off a cramp in her neck or to look at him more properly she can’t say.

“Why then.”  Sam smile this time is less overexcited energy and more predatory intent as he moves to squat in front of her.

“That’s a better question detective; I’ll ask you one too.  Why do you think that Dean is the only killer?  I mean, people have been trying to track him for ages and he’s just one guy.  Do you think he cuts _and_ strangles his victims?  Because sweetheart,” he says, voice soft and almost comforting, “that’s a drastic shift in M.O.”

“Oh my God.”  It takes her a moment, pushing past her drug addled state to solve the problem, pushing the pieces into place with blunt fingers.  Some of his behavior makes perfect sense now: his nonchalance at the police station, his decision to run, this.  If she was scared before, she now qualifies as terrified.  “You…”

“Dean’s favorite weapon is knives,” Sam states, shifting to a kneeling position.  He reaches down and starts removing her shoes.  “I like the garrote personally.  I like the feel of it in my hands.  We do other things of course; it is much better to have a repertoire in our business.”  Ballard frowns, feels her hands start to shake a bit in their restraints as he drops her bare feet onto cold metal.

“Where…”

“Shipping container outside of town,” Sam says absently, running a finger up her foot and her ankle.  She jerks her foot backwards as far as she can.

“You know, strangulation is often seen as personal.”

“It’s not personal.”

“You’re right there, up close to them and in their personal space, you get to feel the—“  She whimpers as the chair is pulled forward, Sam suddenly standing and leaning over her, face pulled into a snarl, and she’s suddenly sorry she tried to distract him at all.

“It’s not _personal_.  It’s not _intimate_.  I do not have any desire to interact with sinners like you past what is necessary.  I am an _angel_ , I am a _god_ , and you are barely worth my time or my attention.”  He stops there, eyes furious, and breathe a bit quick, before he’s shoving away from her to pick through his instruments at his table.

“What are you going to do,” Ballard asks quietly.

“Torture you,” Sam states with a cluck of his tongue.  “And I think you’re sober enough that we can start.”

**

                Sam has _fun_.  When she’s good and does what he says, he rewards her with a break from the pain and a shot of heroin.  She fights at first, as he expected, but by the second day she was starting to rely on him for everything: her food, her water, her bathroom breaks, even her high.  Surprisingly, she also starts relying on him for physical affection, turning into his hands when he would steady her head.  Sam encourages it after this realization; the added dependence will only make his job easier, make the connection solidify more quickly as he continues in his cycle: torture, comfort, torture, high, torture.

                The plan was to do this for four days to get good level of dependence built up, but then he learns that the Baltimore police plan on transferring Dean to St. Louis as soon as possible.  He has to settle for three.

                The detective is dirty, three days with no shower and no clean clothes.  He finds an old piece of string to tie her hair up so that he won’t have the problem of it falling in her face.  Sam helps Ballard put her socks and shoes back on after he unties her, and despite his disgust, lets her lean on him as she stands.  “Where are we going?”  Sam keeps his face focused and neutral.

                “Everywhere darling, but first we’re going to get our car.”  Sam has no qualms about breaking into an impound lot in the middle of the afternoon to retrieve the Impala, and he only hesitates for a moment as he hands Ballard her gun and tells her to keep watch.  Sam has no interference and little problem picking the lock, which he blames on the continued manhunt for him and the detective as well as the focus on Dean.

                He’s pleased that when he goes through the vehicle, their things are still there.  Perhaps they had been spending more time going through the evidence from the crime scenes and the motel room to get to the car yet.  Either way, he takes off the parking boot and fires the engine.  Sam notices that gas will be needed, but he has enough to enact his plan for the time being.  He picks up Ballard and takes off with a laugh and a smile.

                Ballard is sitting quietly with a smile on her face, shutting her eyes as air from the open window hits the greasy plane of her cheeks.  She’s so content; Sam can’t help but wonder at that, at how through all of this she has stayed solid in some way, found a way to maintain a kind of strength.  Then again, Sam remembers that he found a strength too, once upon a time.

                _It was day eight, or maybe day seven, day five?  Sam can’t remember and he’s stopped counting.  It doesn’t seem worth the trouble.  The room is dark and he’s tied to a chair in it, but he’s barely been given food since he’s been there, barely been given water, and they’ve taken him out of the chair just long enough so he’s not soiling himself in the chair, which he’s grateful for.  Training exercise his ass.  Dean and his father are starting to blend together now, just a bit at the edges, and Sam isn’t sure if that’s the torture or the sleep deprivation or the hunger.  Maybe it was blood loss, but that doesn’t make sense because he hasn’t lost enough blood at one time to be this delirious.  So not blood then.  God, when he gets out of here, he’s going to kick Dad’s ass.  Dean at least looks sorry about it._

 _The door opens then and Sam turns from the light as it hits his retinas, closing his eyes as tightly as he can manage as he tries in vain to turn away.  “Not an option soldier,” he hears, way closer to his head than he could have imagined, and he jumps in spite of himself.  Dad’s two hands turn his head forward, but he doesn’t make Sam open his eyes.  “You’re allowed some fresh air today.”  Sam flinches as fabric hits the bruised and scratched portions of his face, and it takes the knot digging into the skin behind his head for him to realize that he’s being blindfolded.  He feels the ropes let go of his wrists and he’s being hauled upward, and he tries his best to walk as quickly as his father wants.  He considers begging as his abused feet hit gravel, but he vaguely remembers trying that already with no success._ Fuck. 

_He almost falls at least twice as they go.  Sam hears a rustling to his left before more footfalls follow him.  Sam thinks its Dean, but he can’t be sure.  He’s not sure of anything now.  He’s yanked backward by his shoulder sharply to get him to stop walking, and he hisses at that but doesn’t speak as hands moves his arms to his back and bind his hands together.  The fresh air on his dirty skin is almost pleasant, but Sam doesn’t trust it.  Doesn’t trust John to keep it just fresh air.  He doesn’t remember this happening to Dean when he turned sixteen, but Sam was younger then.  Maybe it’s just for him.  Maybe dad picked out this particular hell just for him.  There’s no warning, and he really shouldn’t have expected one, but his head is shoved quickly forward into water.  His dad was going to drown him._

_Sam works to hold his breath as he struggles.  The water isn’t exactly clean, and it stings at his injuries, soaks into the blindfold to make his head just the bit heavier, and he doesn’t want to taste it.  The ropes at his wrist chafe as he moves his wrists in vain.  He’s dragged up for air and he gasps, his longer hair clinging to his forehead.  He remembers telling Dean a while back that he needed to cut it, getting it back to the military cut, and now his hair is working as a reminder that this is real.  Sam has time for one last hungry, large gasp before his father is pushing his head back underwater.  He doesn’t bother to count how many time it happens.  Eventually, he hears Dean’s voice from what seems like far away.  “Jesus Dad, you’re going to kill him if you don’t stop soon.”_

_“It hasn’t been long enough.”_

_“There won’t be a long enough if he dies.”_ Dying.  I could die.  _Sam doesn’t want to die; he_ won’t.  _His father pushes his head back underwater.  Sam yanks his left arm desperately, manages to dislocate his wrist to pull his arms free of the rope, and he pushes all of his weight backward using the ground and whatever the water is held in as leverage to propel his momentum.  John falls backward as Sam does, but when they land Sam’s already spinning away, grabbing the knife that is always in his father’s boot, and tears off the blindfold.  He squints at the light, slams his barefoot roughly into his father’s shin before he’s on Dean in hand-to-hand, knocking his brother flat after a few swings and a roundhouse kick to the chin._ Down, but not necessarily knocked out, _Sam thinks as his father struggles to his feet.  Sam keeps the knife in his good hand and uses his dislocated one to painfully jab his father in the throat, tripping him and pinning him to the ground with his knee.   He lodges his elbow under his father’s chin to press down on his throat, twists his knife hand so that the blade is poised to enter between the man’s ribs and slide up through his lung, towards his heart, and then Sam lets out a grunt._

_“Sammy?”  He keeps his body where it is but he whips his head up, hair sticking to his forehead, to look at Dean as his brother slowing approaches with his hands outstretched in a nonviolent gesture.  “You got to do me a favor and let dad go.”_

_“Why?”  Sam’s voice is low and strained, a gravelly sound to it that’s like he’s strangling the words out of himself and through his own rattling teeth.  “I have no reason to trust either of you.”_

_“It’s done Sammy,” Dean says, blinking past the death threat instead of acknowledging it.  “We’re done.  It’s not going to happen to you again; we’re not going to do that.  It’s_ done _little brother.  Just give me the knife and it’s done.”_

_Sam growls, turns his face back to glare into John’s eyes.  The defiance there is out of a demented sense of pride and Sam scowls harder, moves the knife closer to John’s chest as a threat.  Sam licks his lips, and he addresses John this time.  “Beg me.”  His father frowns as if he doesn’t understand, so Sam leans just a tiny bit harder on his elbow, cutting off a fraction more of his air.  “Beg me for mercy, for empathy; beg against the desire to rip your throat out with my teeth.”_

_“No,” John’s manages.  Sam’s sound is feral as he presses further on the man’s throat and moves the knife so that it starts splitting skin._

_“Sam, you can’t kill the Prophet,” Dean says, a note of desperation hiding in his voice.  Sam looks up at that, notices the worried panic of his brother’s gaze, and then he looks back at the proud, arrogant man he could kill with a push of either arm.  Sam pushes himself off and throws the knife at the man’s feet.  He walks until he’s side by side with his brother, facing in opposite directions.  Dean can only see the savage surge of power, pride, hatred, and hunger in his brother’s eyes._

_“We’re done.”  Sam walks back, the image of a pristine teenage boy in shambles with his long hair plastered to his head, shoeless, clothes torn and covered in his own blood, but every step he takes toward the house contains an air of contained violence.  A gale trapped in the firefly jar of Sam’s body._

Sam shakes off the memory as he keeps driving with Ballard passive and content in the passenger seat.  She’ll get anxious for a high soon enough, he knows, but not yet.  For now, he has her under his thumb and when that desperation hits her, he’ll be able to twist everything she is to get what he wants.  Sam pulls over to the side of the road and cuts the ignition, stepping out of the car calmly and Ballard hurries to exit as well, taking a few fumbles at the door before she’s out.  The doors close behind them in resounding thumps and Sam moves to join Ballard on the sidewalk, takes her by the elbow to their destination: the payphone.  Sam gives Ballard a handful of change.  “Call Detective Sheridan.”  Ballard, like the good cop she is, doesn’t question the orders and Sam’s proud at this display of shifted allegiance.  He moves behind her to rest his chin on her left shoulder as she’s putting coins in the machine.  Sam grabs a piece of paper from his jeans pocket, unfolds it to reveal the script he’s been drafting for days, and he moves his hand around her so that she can see it.  Diana pauses for a moment, hand poised to press one last nickel in the slot, and he knows she’s skim reading it.  “Come on sweetheart,” Sam encourages.  “We’re so god damn close to having the world in our hands.”  She pushes in the last nickel.

Ballard moves to put the phone at her left shoulder and Sam moves his chin so that they can both listen in.  _Good girl._ The phone rings twice.  “ **Detective Sheridan.** ”

“Hello Pete.”  Sam smiles at Ballard’s deliberate use of the nickname.

“ **Diana?  Diana where are you?  What’s going on?** ”  There’s a rustling and Sam assumes he’s adjusting the phone, perhaps signaling for it to be traced, so Sam indicates the script again with a tap of his finger.

“If the police want Detective Ballard back, they will need to make a trade,” she reads haltingly.  “Diana Ballard for Dean Winchester, tonight at 9 o’clock outside of town.  I’ll be watching.  Do not try to find me or contact me again because I will be forced to take immediate action.  And Detective Sheridan…  I want you to know that she begged for your help when I was hitting her.”

“ **Shit, what did you do, you son of a b—** “  Ballard hangs up the phone and gathers the change that remains into her palm.  Sam crumples the script in his fist, stepping away from Ballard to shove the thing in his pocket, and he just looks at her absentmindedly as she turns to smile at him.

“I did well, didn’t I Sam,” she asks as she moves into his space again, staring up at him with a hopeful and adoring expression.  Sam can feel his disgust for her radiating off of his skin, but her expression doesn’t change.  He lifts his lips into a smile. 

“Of course you did.”  Diana beams.

“Now?  Can I have some now?”  Sam strokes a strand of hair out of her face.

“Not yet baby.  You’re going to have to wait a bit longer, alright?”  Ballard nods with a sigh but she starts walking back to the Impala.  Sam spends a moment looking after her, wishing he could take a shower and dump her body off the side of the road like trash before he steals comforting touch and attention from his brother.  Unfortunately, he knows she’s still necessary for his plan so he goes back to the car and ducks back in as Ballard is pouring the change into the cup holder.  Sam doesn’t wait for her to buckle her seatbelt before he pulls out onto the street.

They hide out on a service road in one of the town’s parks, far enough back to be hidden by the trees and passing people as they listen to the police scanner.  They learn pretty quickly that Detective Sheridan did not, in fact, tell his superiors that Sam would be listening in on their conversations, and Sam knows that when the detective makes his move, he’ll know about it.  He wonders at the stupidity of human love.

They relax in the car, eating sandwiches and bags of chips, and drinking warm bottles of water.  Well, Ballard eats and Sam picks at the food he has at his disposal, too focused to eat what he has, not that he would have eaten much anyway.  They take naps in shifts and listen to the nearly endless chatter that comes over the shortwave radio.  Ballard gains a sheen of sweat after a few hours, but neither of them mention the withdrawal aloud.  Sam’s considering a short drive for something to do—too many hours spent with leg cramps and dragging monotony—when the awaited message comes over the line.  Sheridan took Dean to be extradited to St. Louis but he’s not answering his radio, and Sam looks at Ballard seriously for the first time in hours.

“You know where he’s going?”

“I have an idea.”  Sam lights the ignition and shifts the car into drive.  They take back roads to avoid the highways, but it’s a bit more difficult to avoid being seen when they get closer to the Baltimore National Pike and the I-70 on their way into Patapsco Valley State Park.  Diana says that it’s the only place Pete would go in the direction of St. Louis, explains that they had a date there once and Pete had probably known she’d remember.  Sam doesn’t give a shit.  If he was the kind to smoke, he’d be lighting up and flicking ash out the window, a type of battle preparation in carcinogens that fills him with fire and prepares him for death.  Instead, Sam turns up volume on _Tonight You’re Perfect_ by New Politics, finds humor in the profound juxtaposition.  By the time they pull onto the correct dirt drive, Pete’s already out of the armed vehicle with a gun to Dean’s head.  Dean is shackled and kneeling on the ground, and he looks up at the sound of the Impala’s engine and the look in his eyes tells of fire, of battlefields, of reckoning.

Sam gets out of the car with a contrived ease to his step, but Diana gets out of the vehicle with a purpose, gun raised in practiced hands and trained on Pete easily.  Sam keeps his gun in his jeans but he doesn’t bother to hide it as he crosses his arms and smiles.  “Hello Detective.”

“Diana,” Sheridan asks, ignoring Sam completely until she doesn’t answer him.  “What in the hell did you do to her.”  Sam grinds his teeth.

“I don’t like being a second priority Peter, you should know that, before we begin.  There is very little that I put above myself.  Don’t be stupid enough to ruin this wonderful deal we have going on.”  Sam’s fingers twitch at his sides before he draws his gun, levels it at Detective Sheridan, who immediately levels his gun at the younger Winchester instead of Dean.  “Diana, will you do me a favor and get Dean out of those handcuffs.”  She stares at him for several long seconds before she tucks her weapon away, moves to the other Winchester and looks at the locks.  Dean gives Sam an incredulous look over her shoulder.

“I need keys or something to pick the lock with,” she calls, looking back at Sam with worry.  Sam grins at Sheridan.

“You heard her Peter; she needs the keys, and if you feel like making a martyr out of yourself, keep in mind that I have no qualms about taking the keys off of your body and you’ll leave Diana here with me.”  Sheridan scowls heavily, but he reaches with one hand to dig the keys out of his pocket and throws them to his girlfriend.  Diana catches them with one hand and begins undoing Dean’s cuffs.

“Now tell me what you did to her!”

“Isn’t it obvious Peter?  I tortured her; I got her high; I did numerous things to condition her so she’d act how I want.  Pretty sure the end of the withdrawal process will disillusion her to me, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay.”  Diana gets done with Dean’s cuffs and she helps him stand.  Dean moves off to the side of the road, out of the fray and seemingly a third party in this confrontation to anyone who could be watching without context.  Diana returns to Sam’s side and he watches as Detective Peter Sheridan’s world begins to crash down upon his head.  She levels her gun.  “Diana,” Sam says with a cheery voice, “will you kill him for me please?”

“Diana.  Diana, please, it’s me, it’s Pete, Diana _come on_ we can leave now; he has what he wants, _Diana_.”  She flicks her eyes between Sam and Peter and back.  Sam lowers his gun and walks towards her, looking at her with a smile and as much kindness as he can fake.

“Please Diana, for me.”  Detective Sheridan switches tactics.

“Sam, I’ll tell no one, I swear to _God_ —“  Sam raises his gun with a snarl, and now his face is dark and full of disgust.

“You don’t know a thing about God Peter Sheridan.  Diana,” he says much more firmly, “shoot him or I will.”  She takes a shaky nod before her entire body goes steady.

“Diana _wait_ —“  The bullet enters through his forehead and goes through the entirety of the man’s brain.  It takes several seconds for him to fall, so for a moment he’s suspended, almost as if God cared about the small life the man had led and was considering saving him.  He does fall, crumpled and at a slightly awkward angle and Diana takes a deep breath before she smiles at Sam.

“I did it,” she says with a sense of awe.  “Does that mean I can have some now, you promised…”  Sam smiles with a falsified kindness, and he lets it be obvious now how little he actually cares.  He walks over to her and cups her face.

“Of course sweetheart.  I keep my promises.   You just have to close your eyes for me, okay?”  Diana nods and closes her eyes obediently.  Sam steps back a few feet and raises his gun.  “I got you Diana,” he murmurs, and then he pulls the trigger.  He cocks his head to the side and studies her body where it’s fallen, ignoring the bits of blood that reached him as Dean walks over.

“You done with the plan now?  Can I speak without interrupting it?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because dude, _what the hell_?”  Dean makes an encompassing, angry gesture at their location.

“What?  I needed to get you.”  Sam frowns and turns to him as he puts his gun away.

“Yeah, but this?  Sam, this isn’t justice, this isn’t holy, and this isn’t _God_.  This was _murder,_ Sammy!”  Dean glares at him.  Sam walks forward and grabs his brother roughly by the arms to drag him towards him before he reaches up and holds his brother’s head carefully in his hands.

“ _Fuck_ God Dean.  We’re archangels, we are _gods_ , and we need to dispense justice against evil, even if that evil isn’t easy to define.  They _betrayed_ us in the name of their justice Dean.  Only _we_ know what true justice is.  This was _justice_ ; this was _mercy._ ”  Sam looks at his brother earnestly, believing every word, and Dean stares at him for a very long time before he sighs and nods.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he murmurs.  “It’s good to see you Sammy.”  Sam smiles, his first real one in ages. 

“It’s good to see you too Dean.”  He hands his brother the keys and Dean smiles.

“Hey Baby,” he says as he approaches the car, stroking a hand along its hood on the way to the door.  Sam can’t stop smiling as he follows, sitting in the passenger seat with a broad grin.  It isn’t until they’ve crossed the state border into Pennslyvania that they can feel like they can breathe properly.  Dean frowns.  “Dude, what the hell kind of music are you playing in my car?”  Sam laughs.


End file.
